


En Promenade

by newsbypostcard



Series: En Promenade [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academy Era, All This Red Matter verse, Dancing, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2017-12-16 19:55:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 73,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbypostcard/pseuds/newsbypostcard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After three months of weekend bar-hopping and a slow process of elimination -- with finding the right bar, that was, and tragically not discovering who Bones was into -- Jim was starting to narrow it down. Bones was actively scowling less, which seemed like a good sign, but Jim still didn’t quite have it right, and lo, he was determined.</p><p>Operation: Bones, Lighten Up was making staggeringly slow progress. But Jim liked Bones and his vocal method of observation, so that wasn’t necessarily a problem. They noticed the same things, Jim had noted, but had totally different reactions to them, and that struck Jim as very entertaining. Burdened both by less work and the according ethic than Bones, Jim regularly went out with others during the week (and usually came home with others, too), but he still found himself looking forward to weekend evenings most. Bones was by far his preferred bar-going companion. And in spite of Bones’ frequent biting remarks and utterances about regretting ever having met him, Jim suspected the feeling was mutual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aug-Dec 2255

**Author's Note:**

> Apart from coarse language, some details about Tarsus IV remains the most significant warning in this section. Nothing graphic, but details of genocidal intent, you understand. Jim also reacts to reminders of Tarsus in a way you might expect a person who witnessed such trauma to react. Stay safe as ever.

It had started, whatever _it_ was, the very first time Jim had dragged Leo to the bar -- which was to say, immediately after they'd gotten their accommodation assignments. 

(Well, not _immediately_ , Leo ceded; Jim had at least given him twenty minutes to stew in the bleak reality of his situation before rudely interrupting what Leo thought might have developed into his best brood ever.) 

Leo's boots had still been on, canvas sack untied but not unpacked, bourbon poised and waiting for him on his bedside table, when Jim brushed at the door in what barely qualified as a knock. “Can you _believe_ they only gave us single beds,” Kirk crowed, bursting fluidly in before Leo’d had a chance to do more than stand. Kirk had the energy of a damn sparrow, easily dodging Leo’s grasp to flutter around the room unobstructed. Leo noted with extreme annoyance that he’d somehow already shaved and showered as he nattered away about needing to "scope out the situation,” a comment Leo took to refer to sexual prospects. Leo was left to watch and sputter his unheard protests while Jim dug through Leo's clothes, "trying to find something acceptable," until he could only blink blearily in resignation, wondering _why me_ , before being prevented from pouring himself a pre-emptive drink when Jim threw at him a wrinkled dress shirt from within the depths of his belongings. 

Leo stared at Jim and his shit-eating grin and wondered if he had enough energy left to punch him in his entire obnoxious face. But then Jim's smile softened and took a different quality, kindly and encouraging, as he crooned that a night out would surely beat a solitary exercise in misery. 

And maybe if only because he was too tired to argue let alone punch the kid, Leo softened enough to let it happen when Jim stepped him around to give him a hearty back slap and to tear his battered old green jacket off his shoulders. 

“It’s gonna be great, Bones,” Jim had promised.

Yet despite such extravagant promises, they had found themselves an hour later in some god-awful club within the Academy's boundaries that was decidedly not anything resembling “great”. Leo suspected that the theme was trying to appeal to _the youth_ , with a poorly-researched twenty-first century throwback to futurism. Fluorescent lasers flitted obnoxiously across the floor and occasionally across his face while something allegedly called ‘House’ pounded the speakers. Leo repeatedly and pointedly closed his eyes against the resulting headache and hoped to god, for Kirk’s sake as much as his own, that this was some elabourate anxiety-induced nightmare.

"Don't look so miserable, Bones," Jim shouted calmly, taking in his surroundings with an air of wonderment. 

Leo noted with annoyance and unsurprise that Kirk seemed unaffected by the adverse environment. He rolled his drink around in its glass with mild disgust, acutely aware that this ‘whiskey’ was in fact some synthetic alcohol made from one of those so-called replicators, and longed for the quiet of his quarters. "And just how am I _supposed_ to look? Do you see where we are?”

“Not one for the retro vibe, eh Bones?”

“Retro!” Leo had snarled. “Is that what this is?”

“It’s fun!”

Leo gestured to the floor, where unfathomably young cadets writhed in unison to this ‘House’. “ _Fun,_ ” he snarled dubiously.

Jim grinned, clearly enjoying the exchange. “So how’s a Southern gentleman such as yourself prefer to spend an evening out?”

“Anything would be better than contributing to this cataclysm.”

Jim nodded and took the glass out of Leo’s hand, setting it aside and tugging at the sleeve of his shirt to indicate that they were leaving. “Then let’s try somewhere else,” he shouted, and Leo noted the cavalier attitude of a person who never spent long in one place.

That had been bar number one in a long line of unlucky candidates. Now it was three months later, and Jim Kirk was crossing the name of another bar off the list he carried around in his jacket pocket, lid of the pen held precariously between his teeth as he did it. “I tell you Bones, it has never taken me this long to find _The_ Bar before,” he decried.

“I don’t know what was wrong with the last one.” Leo had been comfortable at the admittedly divey Irish pub they’d just left; it had been busy but warm, and they’d had a variety of good, _real_ whiskey on hand, of which Leo had greedily imbibed.

“It just wasn’t _right_ ,” Jim mused.

“What does that even _mean?_ We must’ve tried three dozen bars by now--”

“Forty-two.”

“--and none of them have been ‘right’.”

Jim appeared pensive. “Yeah, I know.”

“Well, I sure as hell don’t.” Leo rubbed his hands together and fished his flask out of his jacket pocket, keen to combat the uncharacteristically chilly San Francisco evening with a bit of bourbon (and, you know, to keep the whiskey company).

Jim, meanwhile, replaced the list carefully in his jacket pocket and threw an arm around Leo’s shoulders, leaning annoyingly against his side as they walked down the San Francisco streets. “The best and, dare I say, _only_ way to get to know a new city is by its bars, Bones. So far, it seems as though San Francisco relies mostly on noise and heavy synthetic.”

“You can say that again.”

“Now, Boston, that was a good town. Earthy. Good neighbourhood pubs everywhere. You felt like you were at home everywhere you went. Detroit! Detroit had its charm. Lots of big, well-put-together clubs, not like the crowded crap we went to last week, remember that Bones?”

“Do I!” Does he? They all sort of bled together in a haze of skin, stink, holographic smoke machines, and poorly synthesized booze. 

Trying to remember, Leo tripped on a ledge in the sidewalk and almost failed to catch himself, stumbling along a few paces. Jim laughed as he jogged to catch up, then threw Leo’s arm over his own shoulders in a gesture of support. “Was that some good whiskey, Bones?” he asked cheerfully.

“Best so far,” he grumbled pointedly.

“Ah, no loss, that place. Same old, same old. Tell me about your favourite bar in Atlanta.” Jim’s voice was easy and comfortable, with a note of fondness in his tone that made Leo annoyed in kind of a warm way. “I bet it was really Georgian and, like, kind of orangey.”

Leo made a face, but found the prompt into nostalgia didn’t bother him as much after this much whiskey. They traveled somewhat sideways across the sidewalk as Leo’s focus slid momentarily from the task of walking in a straight line. “Didn’t really have one. I went to Mississippi for pre-med and stayed pretty focused.”

“You?! No!”

“Most of my spare time was spent with Jocelyn,” Leo continued, ignoring Jim entirely. “We were pretty devoted homebodies from the start, and we were married five years already by the time we moved back to Atlanta. Stayed in mostly.”

“Explains the divorce.”

Leo flinched heavily. “Now just what the hell is that supposed to mean!”

“Joking, Bones, I’m joking.”

“Real fuckin’ funny.”

“I’m just saying that maybe if you had gone out and had some fun every once in a while--”

“Pardon me if I don’t have the taste for the so-called ‘fun’ the likes of which your hare brain comes up with.”

Jim’s amused breath tickled Leo’s neck. “You like my hare-brained schemes.”

“Unsubstantiated slander.”

Jim grinned broadly. “Okay, Bones.”

“Point being,” Leo finished through gritted teeth, attempting to stand taller and losing balance for his effort, “never experienced much of Atlanta past 2200h. You hear about it, o’course. Atlantaaa.”

“Atlantaaa,” Jim echoed happily.

“Big city, big life. Lots of lights and sounds to see and hear, et cetera, et cetera.” Leo made a banner-like gesture in the air with his free hand and scowled at the imaginary city before them.

Jim hummed. “Feel like you missed out?”

Leo made a clucking noise of dismissal, but a glance at Jim told him honesty might be a safe bet in this case. “I might, a bit,” Leo admitted.

“Would you do it differently? If you could go back?”

“Ah, hell, Jim, no use spendin’ time on thoughts like that.” Leo felt his Georgia drawl get away from him and furrowed his brow at Jim’s unconcealed glee about it. “But yeah,” he continued, despite himself. Leo avidly disliked talking about the past, but he suspected it was probably a long walk back to the Academy, and Jim supporting him for once was something he was happy to take advantage of. “I probably would do it different. With Jocelyn, though. You know? We could’ve been somethin’.”

“She sounds like a hell of a girl.”

“She was. And is. And we were. Somethin’, that is.”

“I’ll bet.”

Leo fell into thought until Jim broke him out of it. “What happened? With you and Jocelyn, I mean.”

Leo smirked bitterly. “I worked our relationship to death.”

“Aw, Bones.”

“No I worked a _lot_. Med school hadn’t been finished for longer than a month when I enrolled in a PhD-track research internship, and I was driven to make the research do what I had wanted it to enough to run more trials than were likely necessary. She started seeing her youth pass her by, I think, and I never changed the routine because I thought she _liked_ to stay at home, the way I liked to stay at work. I got my doctorate and my divorce papers on the same day. Cruel irony.” Leo chuckled darkly. “Can’t say’s I blame her, necessarily. But it’s hard to tell, in hindsight, whether our marriage fell apart after I started sleeping on a cot at the lab, or whether I started sleeping on a cot at the lab because our marriage was falling apart.”

“Ah, Bones,” Jim breathed sympathetically.

“She was busy too, you know, at the beginning, with med school, but she couldn’t fathom my desire for a PhD on top of it all. She worked at a private practice -- few hours, easy and comfortable work assigning cancer treatments for wealthy corporate fucks and government officials. I think she realized after a certain number of nights spent alone that my work would always drive me more than she did. Not her fault. She probably deserved better than I ever offered.” Leo sighed. “But I did love her.”

“No doubt.” Jim paused. “I’m sorry about my shitty joke before,” he said eventually.

“Huh?” Leo thought fuzzily back a few steps in the conversation. “Oh, that. Forget it.”

“Nah, it was insensitive.”

“Forget it, Jim.”

They trudged along in silence for a few minutes.

“Now, my favourite bar in LaGrange,” Leo drawled eventually. “That was a helluva place. Nothin’ like a small-town hole-in-the-wall. My no-good cousin took me there for my fifteenth birthday and I couldn’t get enough of the place. Used to sneak out there ‘bout every Friday until I met Joce.” Leo smiled. “I’d pretend to go to bed early, shimmy down the drainpipe outside my bedroom window, catch a ride out with my neighbor who commuted to Columbus for night work sometimes, and hitch back home at three, four in the morning. Could’ve easily died.” A rare, genuine grin slowly overtook Leo’s features. “The Barn Swallow, it was called. A good, staple bourbon. Live band playin’, proper dancing, with form, actual steps to learn and follow. Now _that’s_ some real fun, Jimmy boy, you can’t beat that.”

And Leo started and glanced in sidelong annoyance at Jim when he gave a loud “HA!”, beaming with the radiance of a man who’d just won the lottery.

Leo thought, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that maybe he should’ve stopped talking considerably sooner than he had.

\-----  
\-----

Jim knew that he’d heard the key as soon as Bones had said it.

The thing was, Jim had realized early on, that Leonard H. McCoy, MD, PhD, was both very driven and very serious. This made him very driven in his seriousness, and Jim had decided from the moment he’d finished his tirade about darkness and silence on the shuttle of their first meeting to make it his personal mission to get old Lenny (Len? Just Leonard? He wasn’t actually sure. Bones!) to lighten the hell up from time to time.

He knew Bones was capable of levity; a comm search had provided him with that much. Convinced Bones shouldn’t spend his first night at Academy sulking alone in his quarters (and, if he was honest, hardly prepared to spend the evening alone himself), Jim had dropped his bags as soon as he stepped inside, cleaned his wounds to the best of his abilities, and hazarded a mostly-unnecessary shave -- but not before bringing up an abstract of an impressive-sounding article summarizing Bones’ PhD project in pathology on the potential uses of nanite behavior as a tool for diagnosing autoimmunity, and having it read aloud to him while he worked. 

It had been the holo that played on a loop while the computer stumbled over the syllables of the scientific terms that had clued Jim in that Bones sometimes did crack a smile: there he was, in his ridiculous-looking white labcoat, peering at a magnified image of the nanites in operation, with what was unmistakably a smirk of satisfaction on his face.

Jim had seen it out of the corner of his eye at first, busied with the task of scraping barely-visible blond stubble off his face. But he blinked hard and looked again and it was still there, and there a third time after he quickly dropped the razor into the sink and rushed to the comm. 

Soon he was demanding of it a holo search of Leonard McCoy, MD, PhD, in a move Jim knew was pretty unfair, but in this case seemed _totally warranted_. And yes, Jim saw the smirk again in the graduating class of 2251: half of 23-year-old Bones’ mouth upturned, his expression otherwise relaxed as he shook the hand of some important institutional figure. The caption betrayed that, apart from starting pre-med at 17 and receiving his MD a full two years early, Bones had also been at the top of his class.

It seemed Bones bordered on lightening up when he knew he was good at his work.

“Fucking figures,” Jim muttered.

It wasn’t until Jim accidentally cleared his search terms in his exuberance and hastened to re-enter it when a dropped syllable offered him the best discovery ever. It was _Leon McCoy_ that brought up the image of Bones that made him look a full five years younger: straddling a chair, arms folded comfortably on its back, one thumb at his lip punctuating the carefree grin that graced his features as easily as if it had always been there. 

Jim marvelled at the photo, unsure if this really was the same man he’d met on the shuttle, but he decided at last that it was. The long stubble on his face, intentionally messy hair, and t-shirt underscored his casual demeanor. Jim decided that he must have been on leave somewhere before his eye snagged on the caption and told him otherwise: it was from _Atlanta_ magazine, dated two summers ago.

_Leon McCoy takes in the ambiance at the Central Atlanta Outdoor Music Festival. Headlining acts included The Honeysuckle Six, Deep Flex, and Socialist Republic._

“Leon McCoy,” Jim repeated aloud. Bones had given a name he never used intentionally, Jim was sure, to try to bury the evidence that he’d ever tried to grow a beard or experienced a moment of careless joy in his life. 

Jim grinned. He did like a challenge. 

And Leonard H. McCoy, MD, PhD, was a fucking challenge to get to know if there ever was one. Never had Jim taken a drink-loving man to forty-two bars and gotten as abysmally little personal information out of him as had been the case with Bones. Fortunately Bones was generally very forthright with his expressions of displeasure if nothing else, so in his quest to get another genuine grin out of him, Jim had been able to quickly discern that Bones did not like electronica, nostalgia, synthetic alcohol, excessive noise, excessive quiet, clubs in the traditional sense of the word, or anyone under the age of 21. 

He also did not seem to like picking up people at bars -- at least, maybe just not right now; it was hard to tell given that he _refused to reveal any personal details about himself for the longest fucking time_. Jim accordingly had no indication as to what, if any, sexes within which species he was interested in fucking, which again kept the potential bar options very broad (with the added bonus of killing Jim slowly with tortured curiosity). But after three months of weekend bar-hopping and a slow process of elimination -- with bars, that was, and tragically not who Bones was into -- Jim was starting to narrow it down. Bones was actively scowling less, which seemed like a good sign, but Jim still didn’t quite have it right, and lo, he was determined.

Operation: Bones, Lighten Up was making staggeringly slow progress. But Jim liked Bones and his vocal method of observation, so that wasn’t necessarily a problem. They noticed the same things, Jim had noted, but had totally different reactions to them; that struck Jim as very entertaining. Burdened both by less work and the according ethic than Bones, Jim regularly went out with others during the week (and usually came home with others, too), but he still found himself looking forward to weekend evenings most. Bones was by far his preferred bar-going companion.

And in spite of Bones’ frequent biting remarks and utterances about regretting ever having met him, Jim suspected the feeling was mutual. Jim had seen Bones talking easily to others in his program between classes, but Bones only ever consistently socialized with Jim after hours. Jim seemed to entertain him; Operation: Bones, Lighten Up had at least been successful insofar as Bones tended to smirk at Jim’s hijinks without intermission during their quest to find what Jim would only refer to as _The_ Bar. 

And Bones, too, appeared to have noticed that, apart from their basic dispositions, he and Jim were similar intellectually. He soon accordingly began to make entertainment for them both by deriving new ways to express cynicism and dissatisfaction. Winding Jim up with absurd analogies, delivered in the same tone and expression as his legitimate complaints offered but with a mischievous glint in his eye, soon became a significant staple in their half-drunken exchanges.

(“How’s the drink here, Bones?”  
“Like toxic waste mixed with battery acid and aged in the stomach of a Caledonian wildebeest.”  
“Really! A Caledonian wildebeest!”  
Bones had raised an eyebrow and offered his glass to Jim; Jim had cradled his beer. “I’ll pass.”)

Bones also seemed to enjoy, far more than he should, learning small things that put dents in the “unrealistically carefree” demeanor Bones claimed Jim tried to put forth (“I don’t like spiders, okay?” had earned him a rare McCoy bark of laughter), and so Jim continued to pointedly ignore Bones’ increasingly feeble protests when Jim turned up at his door at precisely 2100h every Friday, and soon after, Saturday, too.

But Bones’ suspicion of Jim’s arrivals had been renewed after the Great Dancing Epiphany of November 2255, and maybe with good reason. Jim had thrown the old list of bars completely away, cursing his failure not to take seriously Bones’ apparent love of live music sooner, and come armed the next Friday with a significantly shorter list of six bars that tended to feature live music of the sort that Jim imagined a Georgia peach like Leonard McCoy might enjoy. 

(If he was honest, Jim was still winging it. At least at the outset. He was mostly familiar with the classic pop/rock of centuries past, whereas Bones’ closet tastes seemed to him likely to be significantly folkier -- definitely not Jim’s usual speed.)

“Something wrong, Bones?” Jim had asked innocently, pushing past Bones’ frown when he’d shown up at his door at the usual time.

Bones had grunted and watched with dubious scorn as Jim collapsed onto his bed. “What?” Jim had asked whiningly, tone plied with innocence.

Bones had stared and continued to hold the door open with uncertainty. “We going to the bar?” he demanded roughly.

“Well, not _The_ Bar, Bones, but the search continues.”

“Not anywhere else?”

“Where else would we go?”

Bones’ brow had remained furrowed, but after a moment he’d moved to grab his comm and gestured out the door. “We gonna go, then, or sit around talking about it all night?”

Jim had grinned and hopped off the bed toward the door. “Bones, lighten up!” he’d crooned, slapping Bones on the shoulder as he passed. “It’s gonna be great.”

“I highly doubt that,” Bones had grumbled.

Predictably, Bones’ suspicion had increased significantly as Jim took them further and further away from downtown, and Jim watched happily as Bones’ proclaimed desires to bail evolved slowly into genuine curiosity into where they were going. Jim did his best to placate his apprehensions, which were hilariously couched in language that indicated how little Bones wanted to bring up the dancing thing again -- 

(“You’d better not be trying to do what I think you’re trying to do.”  
“And what is it you think I’m trying to do, Bones? We’re just going to a bar. Same old, same old.”  
“Insufferable,” he’d murmured to himself.)

\-- while also dropping frequent diversions and picking petty arguments to try to get Bones to forget that they were going to the _outskirts_ of San Francisco rather than the other way around. By the time they’d gotten where they were going, Bones was mid-tirade, encouraging Jim to _stop picking fights with other cadets that were eighty pounds heavier than he was if he valued his pretty-boy facial features, damnit,_ and totally failed to register where they were until they were already inside the door.

Jim had to admit that it wasn’t right -- that much was clear from the second they’d walked in -- but he thought the experiment was already a success anyway, because once he’d taken in his surroundings Bones had immediately burst into loud, booming laughter that Jim had never heard before. “Christ, Jim,” he’d said with a crooked grin. “You clearly think I‘m a lot more Southern than I am.”

“You are actually really fucking Southern, Bones.”

“Not this Southern.”

“No,” Jim ceded. “I don’t think anyone still alive is actually this Southern.”

They’d had fun anyway, despite the abundance of plaid, oversized belt buckles, and cowboy hats. Jim had been the first, predictably, to venture out onto the dance floor after a couple of drinks, grinning provocatively at Bones as he approached the nearest cowgirl on the floor and, tipping an imaginary hat in greeting, twirled her around into an easy two-step. He thought he saw Bones mutter “bastard did his research” to himself before sipping his sub-par-but-still-bourbon bourbon and watching Jim laugh as he fumbled over the steps. 

Jim gave it another twenty minutes before muttering in the ear of a nearby brunnette that his friend at the bar was a fine dancer but could use some encouragement. He was pleased to see Bones set his drink down a moment later and allow himself to be pulled onto the dancefloor, smiling reluctantly but not regretfully. Jim turned his dance partner so that he could see Bones over her head, and was impressed to see Leonard-McCoy-who-was-allegedly-not-this-Southern fall smoothly into a Nightclub Two-Step step with long, lilting strides.

Jim let Bones be and continued to work his way around the dancefloor for a few minutes until, bowing to a partner at the end of one of the band’s slower songs, he turned to suddenly find himself face-to-face with Bones, regarding him with a smile he _knew_ he’d never seen before, one that was clearly meant to charm. “Time to see just how good Jim Kirk’s two-step really is,” Bones intoned blandly, grabbing Jim’s left hand in his right and resting the other assertively against his ribcage.

Bones’ gaze was unwaveringly direct and, yes, a bit challenging, Jim noticed, as he led Jim at an upbeat pace around the perimeter of the room once the band had begun anew. Jim felt himself flushing -- something he hadn’t done in years and felt pretty stupid for doing now -- and grinned ridiculously, unable to help himself, struggling to keep up with Bones’ ambitious pace.

Jim wasn’t totally sure why this was happening, if he was honest, but he _was_ sure that he was pretty fucking glad it was. Forcibly wiping the joy from his face and realizing the opportunity he had in front of him, he flashed an expression of false annoyance and suddenly shrugged Bones off, stepping faster to catch him back in a stronger position, the lead now his. “Is that so?” he challenged.

And Jim was glad that Bones accepted the challenge for dominance instead of trying to force turns, because then Jim surely would’ve lost, and Jim Kirk _doesn’t lose_. He held onto the lead for a solid minute at least, gripping at Bones’ right-side flank, until Bones had somehow managed to send them in the direction of another pair of dancers. Jim, ever the gentleman, overcorrected to avoid colliding with them, and Bones took the lead back with a subtle shift of weight that couldn’t have been visible to onlookers. Bones swept Jim away in a perpendicular direction, and despite some avid struggling, Jim eventually laughed his resignation and allowed himself to be led around the dance floor. 

Jim knew his uncontrollable grin openly displayed his enjoyment of Bones’ sudden betrayal of a skill not directly relevant to his work, and he stopped trying to bury it, but he studied Bones shrewdly as he skillfully guided them around the floor’s perimeter. He was unsure how to take his body language or, for that matter, the act of dancing with him at all. Bones’ grasp was commanding, steady, and unmoving despite the movements of Jim’s core beneath his fingers; his eyes still challenged Jim, to say something, he thought, to admit that he was trying to bring something out of Bones that he wasn’t usually willing to part with. 

But there was something else, Jim noticed, that was compelling his jaw to twitch with the effort of staying deadpan. A gladness, somehow, an appreciation of one of Jim’s ‘hare-brained schemes’ maybe -- and then on top of that the conflict that inevitably went alongside such affection. Bones should be annoyed with Jim, according to Bones; and yet here he was bordering on a damned good time in a bar that’s not even his taste, just because it’s in his cultural background, just because he knows how to move in this environment.

And Jim realized, suddenly, scolding himself for finding it surprising: Leonard McCoy had a lot of _feelings_ at any given time that were usually and most favourably expressed with high-energy indignation, but also usefully vented with movement, especially the sort that required his focus and concentration. The two-step was almost _too_ easy for Bones, Jim realized, at least the level of two-step that Bones knew Jim was capable of; but the biting snarl that usually forced Bones’ lip to curl was nevertheless notably absent, his face significantly softer even in spite of hard contemplation of Jim. Bones not only moved lightly; he _was lighter when moving_. Dancing came as naturally to Bones as did cynicism and medicine.

Jim felt deliriously happy with the realization.

But eventually, to Jim’s chagrin, the song ended, as songs do; though his mood soared again when Bones gave him a haggard grin that approached the expression Jim had spent all this time trying to coax out of him. Bones moved his arm up to aggressively muss Jim’s hair before linking his arm around his neck for an appallingly brief but resolutely firm hug, Bones breathing delighted laughter into Jim’s face. He draped his arm over his shoulders and guided them toward the door. “Come on, kid, we gotta get the fuck outta here before I go full South,” Bones resolved.

And though Jim quipped that he didn’t necessarily see a downside to this scenario, he allowed himself to be guided out of the bar, sporting an adrenaline-fuelled grin and jabbing excitedly at Bones’ side.

\---

The next evening Jim had taken them to the neighbourhood pub they’d started going to during the week -- not _The_ Bar, you understand, but not a bad second -- where they each felt a little odd trying to revert to regular drinking habits after the high energy of the previous evening. It wasn’t that he and Bones were _awkward_ , per se; they’d rarely been awkward since the day of their meeting, falling into an easy conversational dynamic almost immediately and never feeling strained to keep it running. But Bones did keep looking at Jim across the table in just such a way that he couldn’t figure out how to read that made Jim feel lousy with desire, and that told him that tapping into a different side of Bones meant an inevitable shift in their relationship. They were _adjusting_ , Jim reasoned, and that adjustment was bound to be a bit uncomfortable. 

It was made worse by the realization that Jim didn’t feel right using his usual approach here, which ranged anywhere from suggestive touches and ambitious flirtation to outright invitations to his bed (or promises, if the situation warranted) when he felt the familiar smoulder of sexual tension. Sex was usually as natural to Jim as breathing; it wasn’t usually long before the thought of skin against skin occurred to him regardless of who he was talking to, and after three months of drunken weekends with Bones, this certainly wasn’t the first time he’d given the notion a thought. ( _Not by a fucking longshot_ , came the involuntary self-reminder.) But Bones was always a million miles away, never quite as present as Jim always vowed to himself to be, and that made a difference. He didn’t want to _convince_ Bones to have sex with him; he wanted Bones to want it, even wanted Bones to pursue _him_. 

And besides all of that: Bones McCoy was his fucking _friend_. And, shit, Jim didn’t think he’d had a loyal friend since the age of twelve. That, too, made this different. That made this important. It also, unfortunately, meant that he had absolutely no idea how to proceed.

He was relieved, then, for the opportunity to escape his thoughts when a couple of xenoanthropologists struck up a conversation with him while he was attempting to charm the bartender with his rudimentary knowledge of Vulcan; and he was additionally thrilled when Bones sidled up to join them at the bar, smile saturated with Southern charm as he and the brunnette took an instantaneous mutual shine. Charlotte and Alia were second-year cadets, and the conversation flowed fluidly among the four of them, with Bones’ reflections on his newly intensified xenobiology program complemented well by Jim’s not insignificant knowledge about xenolinguistics. 

But Jim realized with a jolt that he was actually having to compete for Alia’s attention, despite that Charlotte was making her interest in Bones abundantly clear. Bones had painted on an extremely convincing facsimile of the trope of the Charismatic Young Doctor, his body language and expression suggesting total engagement even when quiet, and it was enough for even _Jim_ to forget he was trying to show interest in someone else, here. Bones was not only actually tall, dark, and handsome, but here he was additionally playing the role, and fuck everything, wasn’t it was attractive as shit.

Jim turned to face Alia, guiding her lightly away from the others, keen to get Bones out of his gaze. This was hardly usual for him; he actually felt his own flood of charm receding in order to make room for Bones’, and he wasn’t sure why it was happening. But suddenly he heard Bones saying behind him that he was recently divorced and not looking for anything serious, and he glanced over despite himself to see that Charlotte was kissing him anyway, and through a low chuckle he was kissing her back, and Alia was suddenly a lot more interested in Jim. 

And Jim was totally fucking okay with that, because he thought he could really do to remember that there were people other than Bones in the world at just this particular moment. The realization that Leonard McCoy could turn the charm on that hard at the drop of a hat was causing some kind of short-circuit in Jim’s brain, clearly, if he had stepped off to the degree that he did as soon as Bones brought it forward; and that was something he thought he might require some time to think on.

\---

Bones was oddly devoid of complaints about their destination the Friday following, choosing instead to gripe about the sloppy disaster the mess hall had tried to pass off as dinner that night. He was also already dressed, and not at all poorly, with enough initiative to step out of his dorm immediately rather than allowing Jim to step in as he usually did. 

If Jim didn’t know any better, he thought, watching Bones sidelong as his feet sprung slightly more than his usual purposeful stride would allow, he’d think that Bones had been actually _looking forward_ to the next installment of Operation: Bones, Lighten Up. He looked damn near content to let Jim drag him off somewhere that might remind him of his misspent youth. Jim suspected it might’ve had something to do with The Barn Swallow having been the last time he’d had this much concentrated leisure time, this much -- dare he say it -- _fun_ , before the relationship that would become his marriage took precedence in Bones’ prematurely-serious mind. 

But on the other hand, Bones had gotten laid last week, so maybe he was just witnessing the state of a man who had simultaneously broken a year-long dry spell and finally fucked someone other than his ex-wife.

On the third hand, as Jim discovered ten minutes later, Bones was already drunk. He gave an extremely fleeting but nevertheless identifiable grin when Jim had mentioned offhand that his fading black eye (“come to me with things like this, you idiot,” Bones had scolded him, which Jim had brushed off with “I like my battle scars”) may or may not have been generated in a run-in with Cadet Cupcake again this week, in which Jim squarely won the fight by _totally purposefully_ slipping on a stray piece of ice from a broken drink glass and watching from the floor as Cupcake had headbutted a steel post rather than Jim’s skull. Bones was generally an extremely stoic drunk, but his penchant for entertainment rather than bitterness advanced by degrees after three or four drinks, and Jim estimated that the lighthearted nature of the “I don’t know whether this asshole or your own stupidity is the bigger danger to your health and safety anymore” that followed his tale meant that it had been four drinks at least.

“You’re drunk!” Jim accused with enthusiasm.

“Not yet,” Bones promised breezily. “Give it an hour.”

It was a ten-minute walk to the venue after they got off the transit shuttle, Jim had approximated, which, given how often they stumbled all the way back to Academy instead of transiting home anyway, was not a terribly long distance. Bones grumbled anyway, though, and withdrew his flask from his jacket, making good on his promise to get well smashed that night. Jim narrowed his eyes and shook his head, happily accepting the flask from him after Bones’ first steady pull. “Who are you lately, Bones?”

“Aren’t you the one always telling me to loosen up?”

“Fuck yeah I am, and I’m glad to see it, but between last weekend and tonight you’re kind of blowing my mind here.”

Bones sighed heavily, acknowledging Jim’s seriousness with his own. “I’m just,” Bones waved a conversational hand, “figuring.”

“Figuring.”

“I didn’t expect to be here, now, where I am,” Bones began, “and that is...” He waved another hand, but failed to find the right word. “I think I’m too old for this.”

“Bullshit,” Jim countered immediately. “Are you unhappy?”

“No,” Bones answered quickly, then frowned at the immediacy of his answer as though surprised to hear it from himself. “I’m not,” he continued in a confused tone.

With a smile, Jim handed him back the flask to help him with his puzzlement. “Then -- and I recognize that this is advice may fall on deaf ears here, my friend, but -- enjoy it. Allow it. Be young.” Jim kicked a rock to distract himself from following the line of Bones’ throat as he pulled from the flask. “Age means fuck all in space, anyway.”

Bones nodded slowly, inclining an eyebrow in surprised agreement. “You might just be right about that.” He gave the flask back to Jim.

“Of course I’m right about that. Jesus Christ. Could you sound more pained?”

“I can hardly believe the words even came out of my mouth.”

“Asshole.”

Bones smiled and turned to give Jim what was an unmistakably fond glance. Jim caught his eye in just enough time to see it in full and shook his head, bemused about how low Bones’ guard was (and also, like, what that look even _meant, anyway,_ was it a _friendship glance_ or _what_ ). But Jim soon realized with a sudden grin that Bones might be significantly more forthright with information about himself than usual and stepped closer to him as they walked. “ _So,_ ” he began innocently. “Did you have a good time on Saturday?”

Bones’ face shifted briefly as he flashed back to recall what had happened on Saturday. “Oh.” He raised his eyebrows with the realization of what Jim was talking about. “I guess, sure.”

Jim nearly choked on his mouthful of bourbon and swallowed too quickly, fire searing his throat. “You _guess_?” he croaked. “Are you kidding? You got fucking _laid_ , Bones! Show some enthusiasm!”

Bones blinked blandly at him. “It was casual sex. What do you want me to say? Why is this a conversation?”

“Because you had sex with someone who wasn’t Jocelyn and that feels like it might be a big d--” Jim stopped. “What? Why are you laughing?”

“Jesus H. Christ, Jim,” Bones managed between chortles, “you seem to have _the_ most unbelievable image of me in your head.”

“I--” Jim opted to cut himself off. “Okay. Enlighten me.”

Bones shook his head and snatched the booze back from him, entertainment still gracing his features. “I’m not the good little conventional Georgia peach you’re painting me out to be. I’m surprised you spend as much time with me as you do if that’s who you think I am.” He gave Jim a sidelong glance. “I’ve been separated from my wife for a solid year, and you actually think that I hadn’t gotten laid in all that time?”

“Well … yeah!” Jim proclaimed. “I get that there’s a solid few months I have no significant knowledge about in there, but since we’ve been here, Bones, I’ve never even seen you show _interest_ in anyone, let alone actually with them. The most intimate I’ve ever seen you with anyone was last weekend.”

Bones gave a final chuckle, though now more contemplative. “Well, consider this, Jim. I woke up one morning and suddenly realized I had neither a wife nor any research to complete for the first time in nine years. How would you have reacted?”

“Me? I’d have gone totally fuckin’ nuts. But --” Jim breathed laughter at the image and took the booze back for himself -- “and I mean this only with love, Bones, I’m not trying to sound superior here -- I se-heriously cannot imagine Leonard H. McCoy getting his freak on. I mean, in more than the bourbon-drinking, Southern-charm sort of way you usually do, of course.”

Bones looked at Jim and raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know who you think you met on that shuttle in Iowa, Jim, but I was in it rough. I was unemployed and running out of savings; I was by some inexplicable lawyering ordered to pay Jocelyn alimony all of a damn sudden even though she made shit-tons more money than me and kept the apartment; and I’d spent six months crawling up the east coast of the ‘States doing nothing other than allegedly ‘finding myself’, which, let me tell you, involved a lot of seedy bars and a good variety of bedfellows. I woke up in Chicago one morning with one hell of a hangover in a bed with five others, with no memory of where I was or who they were, and signed up for Starfleet that afternoon. Decided I had to get myself out of the vicious cycle, back on track.” He grunted reflectively. “I might default to order and cleanliness, but it doesn’t mean I’m not capable of different.”

“Why, Bones,” Jim breathed. “I had no idea.”

“That,” he said, snatching the flask back from Jim, “is clear.” He took a swig and paused thoughtfully. “As for the past few months,” he continued, clearly compelled to save his reputation as lothario from an untimely demise, “you’re right that I haven’t been that interested in sex. I got my post-divorce ya-yas out of my system damn early on. And I don’t know about you, but sixteen-hour days several times a week tend to put a significant damper on my pursuit of sexual activity.” He slammed the flask back against Jim’s chest. “So shut the fuck up, would you, and stop making assumptions?”

“All right, all right,” Jim said, grinning. “Can hardly blame me, though, when you’re as closed off as you are. If you would just _tell_ me these things, I wouldn’t have to assume, now, would I?”

Bones grumbled something inaudible, and Jim made a gleeful noise as he took a drink. Then he was silent a moment as he mulled this information over in his head, internalizing it to the best of his abilities lest he ever even approached forgetting it; and he was soon helpless to prevent the slow spread of the grin across his face as one particular aspect of Bones’ tirade stood out in his mind over and over. 

He turned to regard Bones with a look of intense scrutiny. 

“ _Five_ others?” Jim asked eventually with an inclining tone.

Bones clenched his jaw and blinked sardonically. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“A _variety_ of bedfellows.”

Bones rolled his eyes. He clearly already regretted sharing this information. “Yeah, Jim. It’s a big word meaning ‘more than one kind’.”

Jim couldn’t recall ever having received better news in his entire life. “Leonard McCoy,” he breathed. “The man. _The legend_.”

“Oh, Christ, here we go. Is this gonna be a thing now?”

“Oh, no, Bones,” Jim countered hurriedly. “I’m going to be extremely selective about how and when I use this information. I’m going to wait for the times when you’re really mad at me, like, really fucking livid, like when I get stupidly hurt like that time I was doing backflips off some guy’s car after it had rained and fractured my tailbone, when you’re yelling and turning red and not even letting me explain that the bastard _dared me_ , okay, I had to do it, and I’ll remind you...” Jim took a deep breath and continued calmly: “‘Well Bones. Look on the bright side. At least I didn’t _wake up naked_ in a bed with a _variety_ of _five other naked people_ I had _no memory of meeting or getting naked with_ and without having _any idea where I was_.’ Although,” he emitted an ecstatic burst of laughter, “let’s be real, that sounds like a great fucking time and I’ll _wish_ I’d done that, but you’ll have to concede my point and be nice to me again. Because my-fucking- _God_ , Bones!” Jim dissolved completely into a spiel of hysterical laughter now, grabbing at Bones’ shoulder for support, his unparalleled joy at discovering who Bones McCoy really was at long last overwhelming him. “That’s some majestic fucking shit right there! Who even were these people! Were they even human? Bones!! Oh my God. I’ve never been prouder of you. Look at me. There are tears.”

“I regret ever meeting you,” Bones growled.

“I’m serious.” He was not feeling whatsoever serious.

“So am I.” Bones might’ve been.

So Jim struggled to contain himself, all the while giggling despite the effort and throwing an arm over Bones’ shoulders to show his actual support of his endeavors. But to his ongoing surprise, he saw entertainment flash through Bones’ apparently forced expression of distaste, and was extremely thankful that Bones had had the foresight to be drunk for this conversation.

“Well you can bet you’re never hearing the rest of my stories after that little display,” Bones snapped with attempted bitterness. Then he looked over at Jim with an expression of bland mockery and leaned into the embrace, arm creeping across Jim’s back to tug his hips in closer against Bones’ own as they staggered forward. Jim could feel Bones’ breath against his ear as he leaned in and said in an intentionally low, gravelling voice, the smell of bourbon wafting easily into Jim’s nostrils: “That’s not even close to the most memorable one.”

“Bones,” Jim whispered, draping himself more heavily against Bones, half-involuntarily due to some untimely and _inexplicable_ knee-weakness. “You are _killing me_ right now.”

Bones’ chuckle was low, too, throaty and unbearably gritty, and Jim was having _a time of it_ with the walking. He was starting to get the picture, though, that was for sure: Bones McCoy was a seducteur of extreme skill and ability, possibly even rivalling his own skill in his competence. Certified. (Loath though he was to admit it, truly; he didn’t like to be outdone. But Jim was definitely getting hard, here -- boy howdy was he ever -- so he was forced to concede the point.)

Then Bones shifted and again faced forward -- which, Jim admitted with a distant pang, was the wiser choice with the amount of drink they’d already ingested. “Atlantic City,” Bones continued idly as though the preceding moments had never occurred except for the arm still tugging at Jim’s hip, “now _that_ was a shitshow if I ever was part of one.”

“Oh my God,” Jim muttered, at once relieved and annoyed at the obnoxious sense of curiosity that tugged him away from getting lost in the sensation of crushing desire. “What happened in Atlantic City, Bones.”

Bones made a tutting noise and took a slow drink. “Well, gee, Jim, I just don’t really want to tell you if you’re going to be a total fucking asshole about it.”

“Why would you even bring it up if you don’t want to tell me? It’s time, Bones. You know you want to. Spit it out.”

“Nope.”

“ _Leonard!_ ”

“Lost your chance.”

“I take it back!”

“Well, it’s too late now, isn’t it.”

And so they continued to bicker for another minute before they reached the venue, Jim’s desire winding down to a dull pulse of affectionate familiarity but still annoyingly present. Bones pulled away as soon as the bar came into sight -- a literal barn converted into a dance hall and by now flanked on either side by the skeletal interjection of suburban sprawl -- and laughed loudly into the night before bestowing upon Jim a look of extreme incredulity. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Trust me, Bones,” Jim grinned, “I’ve done my research. This is a serious candidate. Your bar was The Barn Swallow, so we are going to a barn. Sounds reasonable, right?”

“No it fucking does not,” he countered, but the reluctant grin continued to tug at his cheeks, so Jim assumed that it was worth checking out even to Bones.

But, maybe predictably, Jim hadn’t done his research quite as thoroughly as he’d thought he had -- a common comment on his returned papers -- and it wasn’t until they were into their second drinks (whiskey but not bourbon, strike one; telltale aftertaste of a replicator, strike two) that the band took the floor and proved itself to be another Southern affair somehow even more contrite than had been the band the weekend before.

Bones had breathed laughter at the initial introduction and hung his head as the first chords filled the barn. “I don’t think so, Jim,” he muttered around his glass.

“No? You sure? The Houston Honies aren’t--”

“No.”

“--doing it for you?”

“No they are not.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Yes they are doing it for you?”

Bones clenched his teeth in a bitter smile. “I’m forced to remind you once again, Kirk, that you are riling up your primary care physician, and given what you were telling me earlier about your propensity for losing fights lately--”

“I won that one!”

“Physics won that one.”

“Okay, Bones.”

“Point being, I can make your face worse just as easily as I make it better.”

“But then you wouldn’t have such a devilishly handsome drinking buddy, and then where would you be?”

“Probably at home regretting significantly less about my entire existence.”

“Fuck off, you love this.”

Bones twirled a finger in the air. “This, I do not love.”

“Okay, I grant you that.” Jim grinned. “But we’re gonna have fun anyway, right? Like last time? Come on. I want to see you dance again, Bones. And then I want to take holos and show them to everyone on campus--”

“You’re not selling this idea very well, Jim.”

“--and prove to them that Leonard McCoy is actually a total babe when it comes to the country-western vibe--”

“Please don’t call it that. Or me that, for that matter.”

“--and that the man is compiled of significantly more than just angry glances and subdued comments that may or may not be about murdering everyone who does anything to annoy him even a little bit, which, let’s face it, is basically everything.”

“Well you’d be first on my list, and you are, by some miracle, not dead yet. Though at this rate,” Bones went on, glancing behind him as the band stepped away from their first number, “I’d say your days are numbered.” He flashed Jim a pained smile.

Jim only raised his eyebrows and clapped enthusiastically along with the rest of the crowd, placing his fingers between his teeth to give a shrill whistle.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You love it.”

Bones only sighed and drained the rest of his tumbler. “You would think a place of this, ah, _calibre_ would at least have good --” Bones stopped suddenly and frowned across the table at him. “Jim?”

Jim’s gaze had suddenly flickered aggressively over to the dance floor, where it seemed the regulars of the club were making a request. The Houston Honies apparently had a small but devoted following, and Jim suddenly wished he really had done more thorough research as he strained to make sure he was hearing correctly, his brow furrowing deeply. They chanted two syllables over and over again -- something that sounded suspiciously like --

“All right, then!” the lead singer howled into the microphone. “Since y’all are insistin’ so hard -- our second number will be, ‘At Least This Ain’t Tarsus’.”

\--And in an instant, Jim felt the blood drain from his face.

Bones’ voice echoed distantly, saying his name a couple times with an inquisitive tone; but Jim’s gaze was fixed on the lead singer as she leaned into the first verse:

_You think you run out of chances--_  
Boy, you better think twice.  
Your luck depends on far more  
Than a roll of the dice.  
Serendipity comes  
And serendipity goes,  
But when life gets tough  
I sure hope that you knows... 

Jim could hear only two things: the band and the blood in his ears. He waited for the chorus, hoping beyond hope there might be some redemption -- but despite wishing with every ounce of his being for anything else, it had been a fucking mockery.

_Shit could be a lot worse, you know,  
This ain’t Tarsus, after all..._

As though operating on autopilot, Jim abruptly stood and strode immediately out of the bar.

He barely registered Bones swearing and scrambling for credits over the sounds haunting his ears, of the band and of memory, things he hadn’t thought of in years overwhelming every one of his senses against his will. He paused once outside, leaning against the wall and forcing himself to breathe deeply of night air as he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to press the images out of his vision. But he could still hear the band playing on, and worse still the crowd singing along, and felt extremely ready to get as far away from this place as possible. He pushed himself away from the wall and began walking quickly back in the direction they’d just come, his arms crossing tightly against his chest.

“Jim,” Bones called, voice distant as though it was a million miles away, his physical presence in Jim’s periphery seeming impossible. Jim felt a hand on his elbow, and he pulled aggressively away.

“Don’t,” Jim said brusquely, not looking at Bones, declining to break stride.

Bones paused, but after a moment Jim heard him trot up beside him again. To his relief, however, Bones chose to keep stride in silence while Jim tried to get a grip on his breathing. They walked on in silence for several minutes, Jim thoroughly lost in his own head; and when Bones finally draped his jacket over his shoulders after his teeth had started chattering out of a mixture of anxiety and bitter cold, Jim shrugged his arms into it, glancing at Bones with an expression he hoped resembled thanks. 

But the surprise that flashed across Bones’ face told him he’d seen something else entirely, and Jim looked abruptly away, choosing instead to stare at his feet to remind him that one continued to be placed in front of the other, putting distance between himself and whatever he didn’t want to handle anymore just as well now as they ever did.

\-----  
\-----

“You don’t just make a song like that,” Jim stilted eventually.

Leo’s head snapped up in rapt attention. They’d been walking for almost an hour in total silence, Leo keeping stride with Jim and deciding that being _present_ seemed like the best choice. Whatever Jim was going through, Leo couldn’t help, but he could be here when Jim felt like using words again. 

“About Tarsus, you mean,” Leo repeated for clarification.

Jim shuddered visibly and reverted to silence. Several more minutes passed with only the sound of their footfalls to accompany.

“It’s not … an event … for your artistic appropriation.”

Leo could only think to nod, mind reeling as his drunk ass tried to grasp what Jim was saying. _Event_. Jim didn’t treat Tarsus IV as a place, but as an event. Leo wasn’t sure what to do with that.

“People _died_ out there, Bones.”

Leo nodded again, feeling completely useless. “Yeah,” he provided inanely.

“A lot of fucking people died.” Jim swallowed hard, his voice quavering. “Needlessly. Just because one fucking power-high fascist fucking _dictator_ \--” And then Jim’s voice cracked completely into a noise that broke Leo’s entire fucking heart, a momentary betrayal of Jim’s complete anguish, followed closely by a haggard intake of breath, until he once again fell silent.

Leo was shocked, totally unsure of how to react. He walked alongside Jim for a few more minutes, the significance of his reaction not lost but the reasons for it also not clear to his presently addled mind. “Did you lose someone, Jim?” he asked in a low voice, analyzing Jim with as much surgical scrutiny as he could muster.

But Kirk only stared straight ahead, his limbs still moving with mechanical stubbornness, and Leo remained determined to keep stride, his shoulder brushing lightly against Jim’s often enough to remind him that he was there but not so often as to intrude on Jim’s processes.

They walked on in silence for solid hours, the sun rising by the time they reapproached Starfleet. Jim’s expression had by then concentrated itself into a gaze of blank determination, though emotion was still obvious by the twitch of his jaw. Leo glanced repeatedly at him as they wandered onto the campus, air heavy with early-morning atmosphere, dew reflecting the seasonal humidity in the grass to either side of them; and Jim finally took a deep, steady breath as they approached the intersection where they usually branched off to their separate dorms at the end of a more successful weekend evening.

Jim ran his hands over his face and blinked himself awake, seeming to come slowly back to life; then he turned to Leo, looked him dead in the eye with a gaze both clouded and piercing, and nodded his sincere thanks as he turned down the path to his dorm.

Leo, without blinking, kept stride.

Jim blinked in tandem surprise and annoyance. “Bones,” he said, voice husky with disuse. “Go home.”

Leo opened his mouth, closed it, and shoved his hands humbly into his pockets. “I’m not convinced you should be alone right now, Jim.”

“Well, tough shit, Doc, you’re not comin’ home with me.”

Leo raised his eyebrows and, instead of arguing, kept following Jim.

“No,” Jim said abruptly, stopping dead in the middle of the path. “Seriously, Bones.”

Leo stared back at Jim in inquisitive silence.

“I’m fine,” Jim insisted. “Just let it be.”

Unsure of how combative to be, Leo cocked his head to express wordless suspicion, jaw clenching stubbornly.

Jim made a noise of exasperation -- disgust? -- and pushed past Leo with remarkable fluidity. Leo blearily watched him go and had to take a significant stride to catch up, which set him off-balance; and he was shocked to receive one of Jim’s hands squarely in the center of his chest, pushing him backward and forcing him to a dead stop.

“Fuck _off_ , McCoy,” Jim bit furiously, walking briefly backward as he shot Leo his middle finger. Then he turned to face forward, fists tugging his jacket in closer to his chest as he walked, arms folding in a closed gesture of stubborn independence as his breath billowed into the early morning air.

Leo watched his figure receding, not moving for a time; then, as Jim’s figure disappeared behind the distant set of dorms, Leo turned on his heel and returned home on his own.

\---

Leo had slept a couple of fitful hours, but found himself very awake and staring at the ceiling at 0930h, running Jim’s expressions over and over in his head, trying to figure out where he’d seen them before. It hadn’t been the first time, of that much Leo felt certain; but he initially couldn’t pinpoint why Jim might’ve previously felt that devastated in the few months that they’d known each other. 

It was a solid half-hour before Leo had realized what it was: it had been when they’d collaborated to stop The Doctor during their first month at Academy. 

Serial killings had overrun the campus, somehow forcing the removal of the whole system of human internal organs without any visible incisions; and Uhura, apparently familiar with Leo’s PhD work, had come to him with a theory about nanites. She’d been right, of course; nanites did seem to be responsible for the eviscerations, entering the body invisibly under nails and through open wounds, working quickly to demolish a person’s guts within hours of initial entry. Leo and Jim had quickly collaborated with a team of others to program a scanner to force the nanites to desist under trace amounts of gamma radiation, even once under human skin; and they’d managed to intervene just in the nick of time to save Uhura, Gaila, and a half-dozen others from the very fate they’d been investigating.

Apart from serving to solidify trusting friendships early on -- with the exception of Jim, who still did not get along with Uhura and seemed to get along altogether too well with Gaila -- this little escapade had offered the first time that Jim Kirk had demonstrated the sort of raw drive that Leo expected Pike must’ve seen in him from the beginning. Jim had easily taken command of the subsequent _horrifying_ expedition into the Transamerica Pyramid, directing Uhura to a safe place to carry out her translations while he and Leo had descended from above (which Leo _hoped to God_ he’d proceeded to gripe about enough over the coming days that Jim would never impose upon him such an outrageously height-related task again). Jim had made zero jokes as he’d handily directed them in a ploy to corner The Doctor and what turned out to be several of his nanite-based minions -- successful despite that it almost killed them both.

The Transamerica Pyramid Incident -- or TPI, as Leo had abbreviated it in his campaign to underscore the _fantastic_ risks Jim had undertaken in the course of this endeavor (“Okay, Bones,” Jim had retorted cheerfully and repeatedly from behind numerous beers) -- had been the first time Leo had almost died under Jim’s command. Oddly enough, he did not expect it to be anything remotely close to the last time. 

It had also offered the first time Leo had trusted Jim with his life -- blindly, idiotically, and with extreme retrospective suspicion as to the integrity of his own judgment -- but he hadn’t been let down. His instincts informed him, to his own extreme annoyance, that it wouldn’t be the last time he’d trust Jim with his life, either; and he was equally sure that Jim would do his damndest not to let Leo down the next time, or indeed the time after that.

It had thirdly offered, however, the first time Jim’s face had flashed the monumental level of mutual despair and anger that he’d seen the night prior.

In Leo’s esteemed opinion as a medical professional, Starfleet had plainly personified a big frilly bag of dicks for its failure to investigate the murders seriously. Uhura had, in recognition of protocol, first approached her instructor -- some guy called Spock -- for assistance; but he had been forced to encourage her independent actions himself when those in higher command at Starfleet wrote off the murders as police business. The police department, too, had done a solid impression of dickbaggery, failing to consider nanites a serious threat despite Leo’s emphatic evidence to the contrary.

And Leo freely admitted that his feelings regarding who was and who was not a bag of dicks was heavily influenced by the presence of that expression on Jim’s face -- that mixture of fury, horror, and desperation that had quietly pounded at Jim’s features each time Jim had realized that the authorities weren’t going to help. Anyone who forced Jim to swallow hard with the comprehension that Starfleet was refusing to help save innocent lives from within their very ranks; who forced him to fight back the fear gripping at him with the understanding that he was on his own and to replace that fear with rock-solid determination -- anyone who forced him to give a curt nod, age and worldliness creeping into his expression, and announce calmly as can be that, in that case, they would have to do it themselves, these fresh new cadets whose uniforms were still creased from the packaging -- was definitely a massive, uncompromising bag of bespeckled dicks as far as Leo was concerned.

But Leo was okay with that predilection for snap judgements within himself. Those whose negligence forced the wonder and laughter from someone as young and resilient as Jim Kirk? Automatic dickbag status. Fucking A. Sometimes the world is simple.

With the reflection, Leo gave himself a moment to let the anger pound over him, flaring at the thought that something as seemingly innocent as the carelessness of a bad country band had been the latest in a long string of authoritative defeats for Jim Kirk. Then he reached for his comm and drafted Jim a message:

 **Leo McCoy to Jim Kirk**  
 _2255.340 | 10.08:02h_  
I didn’t intend to push. At least let me know what the odds are that you’re going to go get your lights punched out today, would you? I’d like to know in advance if I’m going to need to chase you down somewhere to fix your damned pretty-boy features yet again. I am goddamned bushed and I’ll need to set alarms.

He stared at the message for a solid minute before sending it off, then wrote another quick line to Christine at the clinic asking her to keep an eye out for Jim’s name on the roster, just in case. Then he set on a pot of coffee, preferring the slow-release method of stimulant given the hangover pounding stubbornly at his head, and took up his PADD as he set himself down into a chair, determined to be upright for the foreseeable future. 

He first did his cursory research on the history of Tarsus IV -- border planet, poor Federation presence despite Class M status, _totally preventable fungus_ destroying the crops, and no one around to prevent Governor Kodos from taking matters into his own hands and sacrificing half the population in the name of planetary survival. Starfleet had arrived too late, claiming Klingon attack as the reason for delay; and by then Kodos the Executioner had already met his maker, having been burned to death by what Leo hoped to hell were rebels getting justice.

He opened two tabs for follow up: one checking the Federation files on this event, the other research papers on Kodos’ particular brand of eugenics.

His stomach flipped again and again as he read theses on the Governor’s method of selection. Kodos’ eugenics seemed to have been predicated on the notion of medical ‘fitness’ so as not to drain the planet’s resources in the future; but Kodos seemed not to have had an advisor who was remotely trained in anything resembling either genetics or medicine, so the reality was far from what he had intended to achieve. Humans had been overwhelmingly favoured in the selection process despite significant diversity on the planet because their physiologies were more thoroughly understood; but even then, humans were not exempt, a solid 700 families being condemned to death on the basis of whether anyone in immediate relation had been in need of medical care in the last two years.

Leo reread the theses on eugenics several times, trying to puzzle out Jim’s connection to the event. On a whim he opened a third tab and ran a search on all available Tarsus files for the name ‘Kirk’. Nothing came up, which Leo had expected -- though a more thorough look through Federation files told Leo that nine names had been sealed for reasons that were not clear.

Leo read on for several hours, bringing up any information he could find, stopping only to pour himself coffee, though that too also eventually lay cold and forgotten. It was 1430h before Leo was finally interrupted from the chirp of his comm, which he snatched up clumsily, the PADD falling hastily into his lap. He flipped the device open and breathed a sigh of relief to see the message was from Jim:

 **Jim Kirk to Leo McCoy**  
 _2255.340 | 14.32:54h_  
Stop worrying.

Leo exhaled sharply and stared for a moment, imagining that Jim had probably just done several consecutive shots and thrown himself into bed upon return to his quarters. Then he typed in return:

 **Leo McCoy to Jim Kirk**  
 _2255.340 | 14.34:22h_  
I’m your doctor. It’s my job. Drink later?

This, of course, received no reply; but Leo felt considerably better having heard from Jim at all, and exhaustion suddenly creeped over and settled into him, forcing him into sudden acute awareness of the aches associated with having walked fifteen miles on a not insignificant amount of whiskey. 

He messaged Christine advising her that Jim seemed unlikely to turn up in the clinic after all; and then he threw himself unceremoniously back into bed to fall almost immediately into an uneasy sleep, filled with anxious dreams about eugenics and bad country music.

\---

He slept on until about 1930h, embarrassingly, and only woke then due to a harsh rap on his door. Leo propped himself up abruptly on his arms and looked around for his comm, which told him the time and that there were no messages. Leo blinked for a second, wondering if he’d hallucinated the noise, before he heard it again amidst muffled voices. _It couldn’t be Jim,_ he thought to himself before he supporting himself stiffly out of bed and trudging dazedly over to open his door.

But it _was_ Jim, sort of, weight all on one leg with his arm draped around Uhura’s shoulders, of all people. “I believe this is yours,” she intoned flatly, her face betraying extreme irritation.

“Christ,” he muttered, moving quickly to take Jim’s dead weight of an arm as she shrugged it off. Jim looked blearily at Leo, his face badly battered and his ankle clearly shattered in some way, breath stinking of god-awful synth alcohol. 

“Bones?” Jim questioned distantly, barely aware of his surroundings.

“What happened to him?” Leo asked Uhura.

“I don’t know,” she said dryly, then threw her arms up as Leo shot her an inquisitive eyebrow. “I honestly don’t know,” she reiterated. “I walked into Clutch on campus with some friends and saw this idiot sitting on the floor, debris everywhere, everyone standing off to the sides of the room looking dazed. Whatever had happened had obviously _just_ happened, but there was no evidence of what it was, and no one was talking. I’m willing to bet this week’s salary that he was in one of his weekly displays of unbridled male aggression, though, and it looks like he lost badly, for obvious reasons.” She tutted at the sorry sight that was Jim Kirk, now slumped drunkenly in Leo’s chair as Leo scrambled in a drawer for his medkit. “I staunched some of the worst bleeding to the best of my ability and then tried to take him to the clinic, but he refused, would only say ‘Bones, I have to see Bones,’ over and over. Kept struggling away from me unless I agreed to take him to you. And I wasn’t just going to _leave him_ there, so.”

“You really could have,” Leo muttered, half to himself.

“I did think about it,” she said, smiling bitterly. “But he was just too pathetic. It looked like he was willing to drag himself mostly along on one foot as long as we were going to see you and as long as he had someone to steady him, so here I am.”

“That’s damn good of you, Uhura. I’m not sure I’d’ve done the same in your position.”

“Yeah, well.” She smiled, knowing better. “I did it mostly for you, Leo. Not him.”

Half-smiling, Leo tore his eyes away from Jim (who shouted slurredly, “Who’s Leo??”) for just long enough to make eye contact with Uhura. “Well, I do appreciate it. Thanks for bringing him to me.”

Uhura nodded, eyelashes resting momentarily against her cheeks in acknowledgement of Leo’s thanks, before she gave his shoulder a quick pat and slipped away around the corner.

Leo worked methodically, saying nothing. Jim seemed to know that Leo was displeased with him, because he too was uncharacteristically quiet, allowing Leo to doctor him uninterrupted. Leo was happy for something to do with his hands, because otherwise he thought he might have wrapped them around Jim’s neck out of combined anger, relief, and concern; but they were steady as they ever were as he ran the scanner slowly over the rest of Jim’s body, checking for internal injuries.

“‘M’I gonna live, Bones?” Jim said eventually once Leo had done all his scanning, satisfied with the results, and had moved on to the regeneration of Jim’s face.

“Not at this rate,” Leo muttered.

“I’m not??”

“You’ll live!” he half-shouted, suddenly decidedly more angry than any other thing. He took a brief look at Jim’s ankle and inhaled through his teeth at its size; there was some pretty massive swelling, but Leo ran through the usual motions to check for a fracture and determined that Jim’s wince did not intensify at any particular point. He’d have to check it again when he was more sober, but for the time being he was content -- _Strong word,_ he thought to himself -- to keep Jim where he was.

“You _are_ an idiot,” he told Jim squarely.

“What did I do!”

“You tell me. What the hell happened to you tonight? How much have you had to drink? Did you even sleep?”

“No,” was all Jim said, apparently in response to the last question.

“Well, that’s your first mistake. Come on. You’re coming to bed.”

“ _Finally,_ ” Jim breathed as Leo helped him up. “I’ve been waiting for, like, ever, Bones, seriously, what took you.”

“Waiting for what, Jim?” Leo felt his demeanor softening despite himself as he peeled Jim’s jacket off his shoulders.

“You.”

“Me.”

“You man you.”

And -- now really despite himself -- Leo grinned. “You’re drunk, Jim.”

“Accurate.” Jim leaned in closer to Leo’s face, eyes searching with odd sobriety, but Leo pushed him easily away by his shoulder, barely suppressing a laugh.

“ _No,_ ” he emphasized, himself feeling the mixed messages as he unbuttoned Jim’s jeans. “This is not that kind of bedding. You are going to sleep this off, whatever _this_ is, and I am going to sit on the other side of the room looking surly and wondering what the fuck it is you’re trying to do with yourself here. Sound good?”

Jim pouted petulantly and grabbed Leo’s hand as it continued to surgically unbutton the fly of Jim’s jeans. Leo froze, preparing to tear his hand away the second Jim tried to get fresh with him; but Jim moved Leo’s hand away from his crotch instead, intertwining their fingers carefully in the air, looking sadly at their hands as he did it. Leo frowned and waited. “What’s this about, now?” he asked after some seconds passed, not unkindly, as Jim wiggled his fingers in Leo’s grasp.

“I’m just sad,” Jim whispered. “I’m really sad, Bones. I need a friend.”

“Well, you … had someone else bring you to the right place.”

“I just don’t...” Jim’s face fell in degrees, moving from vague, drunken sadness into the expression of profound loss he’d seen earlier and never wanted to see again. “I don’t _understand_ , Bones.”

Leo surveyed Jim with a furrowed brow. “Is this still about Tarsus?”

Jim nodded slowly, his hand working in Leo’s. “There’s, nothing makes sense. I was thinking about it and it doesn’t make sense. There’s no … there’s no good reason to kill 4,000 people, Bones. But he did it anyway, without hesitation, without … remorse? He just signed their lives away. And I don’t...” Jim looked away from their hands at last and caught Leo’s eye directly. “Why?” he whispered, total devastation wracking his features. “Can you explain it? Can you tell me why, Bones? Can you show me the science? Because I just--” And Jim’s voice broke off, shivers coursing through his system, leaving him clutching at Leo’s hand as though it was his last lifeline. 

Something in Leo’s stomach lurched and he stepped forward, sliding his arm around Jim on a whim and bringing his hips against him, holding their still-entwined hands out to the side in a pose they might have danced in on better days. “Some things are beyond reason, kid,” Leo said, and Jim buried his face in the crook of Leo’s shoulder.

“I don’t understand,” he whispered again.

Leo wished he had more to offer. “Neither do I,” was all he had.

Leo held on to him, though, for as long as he needed, pressing his lips gently against Jim’s neck partially in an attempt to calm him and partially in a ploy to keep track of his heart rate. They stayed that way, swaying slightly under Jim’s unsteady weight, until his shivering had slowed and Leo felt his heart rate return to a more normal pace. 

Leo stepped back and checked Jim’s face, which was still bowed but calm enough to be _dozing off_ , the bastard; and he gave a glancing smile as he encouraged Jim toward the bed. “Okay, now. Take off your shoes and stay awhile, why don’t you.”

Jim made a noise that suggested resistance, but allowed Leo to half-drag him toward the bed (and my, wasn’t the bastard heavy! How in the hell had Uhura dragged him halfway across campus?). Leo threw Jim awkwardly him down onto the mattress, tugging his shoes and pants off haphazardly with care to mind his swollen ankle.

“You comin’ to bed too, Bones?” Jim asked again.

“Not this time, kid.”

“Not even to cuddle?”

“‘Fraid not,” he replied, smirking lightly. “Got work to do. I’m a doctor, y’know. I’m busy.”

“It’s Saturday,” Jim slurred accusingly, eyes already half-closed with sleep.

“And I’d very much like to get this research paper done by Monday.”

“Ew.”

“Tell me about it.” Leo moved Jim’s leg’s properly up onto the bed and tenderly turned his ankle over for another quick look before tugging blankets over Jim’s half-clad form. “I’m gonna put a glass of water on the table here and two tablets for the pain you’ll undoubtedly wake up feeling in every ounce of your being, _please_ take these at least twenty minutes before you even attempt to get out of bed, I’m asking as your doctor. Shout if you need anything else.”

But Jim was already mostly asleep.

Leo ordered delivery from a nearby diner, poured himself a healthy tumbler of bourbon, and settled in to spend the rest of the evening rereading through the information about Tarsus IV, trying to fit Jim into the course of events and hoping to hell he’d never be able to manage it.

\-----  
\-----

The next weekend, finally -- _finally_ \-- they’d found it. 

Bones’ breath had actually bated in his chest for a second when they’d first walked into the third bar on Jim’s List, v.2.0; and then he exhaled and gave the room a wide, beaming grin. “Now _that’s_ more like it!” Bones roared approvingly, lips quirked with open enjoyment and head nodding in approval.

Jim felt like Christmas had come early.

The Rustic was significantly different from how Jim had imagined it, but he saw the appeal. He noted with self-satisfaction that he hadn’t been wrong about the barn parallel; the walls and ceilings were made of beautifully stained wood, beams and planks providing sort of a warm, dark ambiance that he hadn’t encountered elsewhere. The back wall was interjected with a full panel of windows against which the stage was backed, with doors opening out into the night on either side of it. The band was already playing; and Jim noted that it was not hard country but instead some sort of country/rock hybrid that probably should have surprised Jim less than it did, given Bones’ propensity for hardness.

He looked around for Bones and found him already at the bar, leaning grinningly toward the bartender as he inquired after the warehouse of barrels that was visible on the other side of the bar’s open back. “They _make_ bourbon here? Proper bourbon?”

“Yes Jimmy boy, they do. They don’t age it for near long enough, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“Oh my god. You’re so happy.”

Bones looked him right in the face with that grin on his face -- yeah, that one, the one he’d spent the last three fricking months trying to replicate -- and now that he was finally seeing it in person Jim’s stomach seemed to be doing its best to fight its way out of his body for some fucking reason, severely dampening his ability to enjoy the moment by confusing the hell out of him.

“It’s as goddamn close to Georgia as I’m ever going to get in California, I tell you what,” Bones confirmed.

“You’ll tell me _what?_ ”

“Shut up and order a drink. Pick an expensive one. I’m buying.”

“You can’t afford my tastes.”

Bones raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Are you really going to jackass your way out of a free drink?”

“Did you just use jackass as a verb?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I seem to’ve reserved its usage for particular moments of Jim Kirk numbskullery, like this one.”

“After this, Bones, I’d think you’d know my genius.”

Bones rolled his eyes and ordered two of the standard house bourbon, then took a moment to slap Jim upside the head. “Where in the hell did you find this place?”

Jim grinned and rubbed at his head. “My little secret, Bones.”

Bones opened his mouth to argue, but seemed to think twice and closed it again. Then the lightness fell away from his face for the first time since they’d walked in, and he looked at Jim with sudden and disarming honesty. “Why go to all the trouble?” he asked seriously.

Jim likewise dropped his expression to a sincere smile. “I thought it’d be worth it.” He shrugged. “I haven’t been wrong.”

Bones studied Jim closely for a moment before being interrupted by the arrival of their drinks. He stood to attention and nodded his thanks, handing one glass to Jim with some levity restored to his features. “Music is good,” he remarked before testing the bourbon.

Jim nodded. “Doesn’t suck.”

Bones blinked slowly. “It doesn’t suck?” he repeated incredulously.

“It … legitimately does not suck?”

He shook his head. “You’re gonna come to appreciate Southern rock, Jimbo.”

“Is that what this is?”

“Well, now. If it isn’t something Jim Kirk knows nothing about.”

“I know, like, Lynyrd Skynyrd.”

Bones sighed. “One day I will succeed in dragging you out of the dark ages.”

“Says you, Old South.”

“But same basic idea,” he continued, ignoring Jim, “except with fewer of the oppressive old-world genre demarcations.”

“You know a thing or two about music, Bones?”

He cracked a smile as he leaned against a pillar and watched the informal chaos of the dance floor. “I might.”

Jim grinned and knocked back the rest of his bourbon, which as far as he could tell wasn’t damn bad either. “Well, you feel free to stand there and watch the joy unfold in front of you, Bones. I’ll be out on the dance floor if you need me.” He placed his glass in Bones’ empty hand and backed his way out onto the floor, waggling his eyebrows at him as he went and finding the first possible opportunity to interject himself into the foray.

It was ten minutes later when Jim next caught sight of Bones, aggressively carving across the floor with a woman who clearly matched Bones in dancing ability, the two of them staring each other dead in the face and grinning broadly. They seemed to be in what could only be explained as _the zone_ , moving progressively faster and more fluidly as they acclimatized to the movements of the other, The floor began to part with most stopping to watch the pair of them continue on through the Latin-influenced song, the band seeming to speed up just to challenge them. 

Jim stopped his own partner and stood off in one corner, unable to prevent the grin spreading across his face. He was reminded once again that Bones could fucking _move_ , his motions blurring evenly together, making it appear as though he’d been born in motion and had never stopped. He spun his partner concertedly around, feet sweeping in long strides out to the side, his grin wide and permanent as he found himself thoroughly in his element. Bones raised his eyebrows at Jim in recognition as he swept past, catching his partner in one arm to send her spinning toward the other; and Jim keenly watched the speed and precision of every step, incredulous that Bones was hiding an ability so substantial for so long.

At last Bones stepped back and held his dance partner’s hand out at arm’s length, the song ending, the crowd applauding around them. He gave a small bow of thanks, his smile full as ever; but Bones shook his head when she approached him for another dance, resting his hands in thanks on her shoulders. He said a few words and gave a gesture in Jim’s direction, and she nodded in disappointed comprehension as he left her off with an appreciative cock of the head.

“Dude, she was totally into you,” Jim said as he approached, vaguely aware that he’d somehow lost track of his own partner with the return of the music.

Bones stepped faster to take Jim up in time with the beat, sweeping him away easily while Jim concentrated every ounce of his focus on not tripping over his own feet. “I’m not here with her.”

“You’re not really ‘here’ with me, either.”

He frowned and nodded. “Right now I am.”

Jim cocked his head inquisitively and immediately regretted it for the misstep it caused him. “Are you?”

Bones searched his face as they moved around the room. “You spent three months trying to find me a place like this. Why?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. Three weeks, maybe.”

“Jim, I’m not stupid. You’ve been trying to crack me from day one.”

“Crack you! Oh my God, Bones. I just wanted to see you genuinely content for five minutes.”

And there again was a genuine Leonard McCoy smile, replete with affection, and Jim was doing something weird with his face without really meaning to.

“Well then,” Bones continued, slowing the pace down and changing the step such that Jim was closer to him, “it would be a shame if I was _being content_ on the other side of the room from you. So much effort for no payoff.”

Jim shook his head with shocked incredulity. “It wasn’t about payoff.”

Bones examined him and hummed with interest. “Is that a first for you?”

Jim frowned as he registered what might’ve been an insult, but he realized Bones didn’t intend it that way. “Having a _friend_ is kind of a first for me, Bones.”

Bones’ eyes searched his face and Jim stared back, his hand gripping at Bones’ flank as autopilot carried him through the steps. “Why is that?” Bones asked softly.

Jim shrugged. “Never really stood still for long enough to make one. But hey -- in Starfleet for the long haul, right? At least in theory. Better give it a shot with the grumpiest asshole in the universe. Endless entertainment if nothing else.”

Bones smiled and rolled his eyes, then settled their pace right the hell down in time with a new song, his hand unexpectedly settling in the nape of Jim’s neck as Bones pressed their foreheads together.

“It’s been a long damn time since anyone’s paid that much attention,” Bones rumbled.

Jim swallowed. “Anyone’s an idiot.”

Bones breathed laughter and moved to bring Jim closer to him, forcing Jim to rest his head on Bones’ stupid broad shoulder; and goddamnit if Jim wasn’t made of fucking jelly, his fingers bunching themselves in Bones’ shirt as Bones enveloped Jim closely against him, his other hand resting in the small of his back, skin all heat behind sweat-dampened shirts.

He wasn’t usually like this, he kept telling himself; _he_ usually took the lead. But when it came to Bones, he had to step aside, and maybe that’s what was different, here. Maybe that’s why he had these feelings he wasn’t sure how to account for. Or maybe … that was friendship? Or maybe it was just fucking _Bones._ But as they danced on, Jim felt one thing was for certain: he would’ve been totally fucking happy just where he was for probably ever, and that knowledge was terrifying and great at the same time.

“Now, Jimbo,” Bones said eventually, pulling back from Jim with a glint of determination in his eye, his hands moving to hold Jim’s face in place. “I’m going to teach you how to dance properly. None of this half-assed two-step bullshit you picked up from comm searches.”

Jim blinked indignantly and pulled back from Bones’ grasp. “I do fine!”

“Have you seen yourself? It’s embarrassing.”

“Fuck you.”

But Bones threw his head back and laughed, and then swept Jim off again at a faster pace, kicking his feet into place, the two of them shouting profanities at each other; and Jim was pretty fucking grateful he was a quick study, because after no time at all Jim took it upon himself to sweep Bones off into the floor this time, and Bones let it happen, laughing and letting Jim lead until he took it back himself, the two of them running through the steps for solid hours before the closing of the club finally forced them out into the night.

\---

The walk back to Academy was leisurely, Jim moving somewhat gingerly after discovering muscles he hadn't known had existed before. Bones had been humming distantly, apparently happy to amble home mostly in silent reflection of his misspent youth; and Jim was just as happy to witness it, unwilling to interject with his usual banter for fear of breaking Bones' comparatively blissed-out demeanor. 

“That was a good night, Jim,” Bones offered calmly after a time, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Jim watched Bones’ face, more content and relaxed than it had ever looked even once an hour away from the club, and felt stupidly self-satisfied. “Yeah, Bones. It was.”

He had to hand it to himself: He was fucking great with hare-brained schemes.


	2. January-February 2256

Leo opened his eyes on the morning of January 20th to find Jim sitting in his office chair, feet propped up on his desk, wearing a shiny pink party hat and balancing a noisemaker in his teeth.

“Happy birthday, Bones!” Jim exclaimed, grinning widely around the noisemaker.

Leo groaned and threw a pillow over his head. “I ignored yours,” he objected.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jim replied idly, and Leo re-emerged begrudgingly only to have Jim blow abruptly on the noisemaker. It broke almost immediately, hard blast giving way to a deflating quail; and Jim frowned at it as he removed it from his mouth. “I don’t have a birthday. I magically appeared in this universe on no day in particular.”

“That explains that lecture on Starfleet history I sat through two weeks ago all about the heroic actions of one Acting Captain George Kirk--”

“Coincidence.”

“--who sacrificed his own life to save the lives of his crew on the USS Kelvin--”

“What a guy! Too bad we’re not related.”

“--including the life of his wife Winona, who gave birth to their son Jim on the escape shuttle--”

“Tales from an alternate universe.”

“--twenty-three years ago January 4th.”

“Blah bloo blee bloo blah.”

Leo forced his voice to a different register to denote imitation. “And isn’t it interesting that the very same Jim Kirk is now a cadet here with us in Starfleet? What goes around, comes around, I’ll say.”

Jim frowned suddenly and turned to face Leo, his feet hitting the floor abruptly as he held the damaged noisemaker aloft. “This was in an actual history class?”

“Yep.”

“Who’s your lecturer?”

“Ahn.”

“Ahn legitimately said that out loud? To an entire lecture hall full of cadets in our year?”

Leo winced, suddenly feeling like a total asshole. “Yes,” he confirmed eventually.

Jim’s expression of incredulous anger was in perfect juxtaposition to the hat upon his head.

“Sorry, Jim. I didn’t think that through.”

“Not your fault. Glad you told me.” He ran his hands tiredly over his face. “Christ on a bicycle. I don’t want my fucking personal history paraded out like that.” He chewed on the inside of his cheek and folded his hands tightly across his torso. “That explains a lot about that day. And the days that came after it. I thought I was imagining the weird looks, people treating me differently. Fuck. I hate everyone.”

“People are the scourge of the earth,” Leo agreed. “I tried to find you after.”

“I was taking a personal day,” he said delicately.

“Why aren’t you in that class, by the way? Thought it was required.”

“Passed a challenge test. I could write a book for all the knowledge I have about Starfleet. See above, re: George.” He drew out the name, pronouncing every letter to completion. “Between the fiasco itself and mom’s obsession with my having the ‘correct’ view of it, whatever that means, my early education was kind of unavoidable.”

Leo slid his hands under the pillow and propped his head up to watch Jim as he spoke, but Jim noticed and pointed abruptly at him. “No. Don’t get too comfortable. It’s Bones Day and we’re going to go do Bones things.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Too bad.”

“You avoided yours,” he repeated.

“My date of birth is not a celebration, Bones. It’s an extended wake. Not just for dad, but for the dozens of others who were killed in the attack. It’s literally recognized in the Starfleet student handbook as a day of mourning. There was _a history lecture about it_. I assume you got the whole spiel on the events of the day?” Leo nodded seriously, and Jim shook his head. “I might have physically avoided it, but I promise, it was pointed out to me. I’ve gone literally underground on some January 4ths and people still manage to remind me of all the death my life is associated with.” Jim brought up a toe and prodded Leo’s leg through the blankets. “Your birthday’s way better. You got born -- which, awesome -- and also: no one died.” Jim’s eyes suddenly bolted up to meet Leo’s. “Right?”

Leo’s mouth quirked into a fleeting smile. “Right.”

Jim shrugged. “Much rather celebrate yours than mine.”

And damnit if Leo hadn’t let that convince him to consciously acknowledge his birthday for the first time in years.

To his joint embarrassment and joy, Jim had gone the whole nine yards. He’d let Leo sleep, incredibly, for another three hours, occupying himself with his PADD before finally jolting Leo awake with his now-repaired noisemaker and an excited rendition of ‘happy birthday’ that had almost brought Leo to consider the merits of prison for murder over space; then he’d dragged Leo ninety minutes outside of campus to an extremely specific diner that had purported some all-day brunch dish called Atlanta Sunrise (which in fact had just been waffles with peaches on them -- not half bad, ultimately). Following, he’d taken Leo downtown for a “surprise” that made Leo extremely nervous -- until it turned out to be a very interesting talk on the ethical implications of the use of nanotechnology in medicine, which Leo hadn’t even been aware was happening.

“How’d you find out about this, kid?” he mumbled afterward, rolling the program over and over in his hand with the anxious realization that Jim had to have done some degree of research on him to know what his PhD work had been on.

“Who do you think scheduled it?” Jim replied, grinning impishly. Leo actually couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not.

“I suppose _you_ did,” he returned, opting to default to the assumption that he was indeed joking; and Jim had thrown a convivial arm around his shoulders.

“Believe what you want, Bones,” Jim said. “Bar?”

“Bar,” Leo agreed, and Jim steered him suddenly into the nearest door. “Uh,” Leo grunted as the deep decline of the staircase underground opened ominously before him; but Jim patted a calming hand to his chest and pushed Leo ahead of him.

“Whiskey,” he said, gesturing to the wall of booze behind the bar when they emerged at the bottom; and Leo’s jaw had dropped open.

“Good Lord,” he muttered. “I’ve died, and this is heaven.”

Whiskey, _real, proper_ whiskey, in glass bottles and everything, sat half-full on sturdy shelves that wrapped themselves entirely around the back wall of the bar. “Old speakeasy -- or some approximation, anyway,” Jim said, clapping Bones on the back before tugging him toward the bar by the shoulder of his jacket. 

The place was totally devoid of people apart from themselves and the owner, who looked completely unperturbed as to his lack of business at this early evening hour; and Leo was clued in to why the place was so empty when the number of credits for their whiskeys flashed briefly by before Jim had a chance to settle the debt.

“Jesus Christ, Jim! Let me get my share.”

“Nope!” Jim had protested loudly, snatching both their drinks off the bar and spinning toward a table in the back corner. “Bones Day!”

“Jim is Going Broke Day,” Leo muttered after him.

“Bones Will Pay Me Back in Food and Drink In No Time Day.”

“This is no longer making sense.” He slunk into the booth and handily caught the drink Jim slid across the table.

“And you have stopped complaining. So: success.”

Leo looked around for something new to harp about. “It’s empty,” he grunted eventually.

Jim grinned. “Give it an hour.”

And indeed, in an hour the bar had populated itself well. The owner seemed to know to expect a moderate crowd around 2000h, and had spent five minutes shortly before aggressively kicking an actual jukebox until old-world country-rock began to seep out of it in muffled tones.

Leo felt the smile slip involuntarily onto his face, and Jim beamed. “I suppose you had this place constructed in my honour in between booking academic lectures,” Leo accused.

“Yeah, actually. Don’t let the sign above the door fool you. This place is actually called Bones Bar.”

Leo cringed emphatically. “Sounds like a bathhouse.”

“Do you want to go to a bathhouse, Bones?!”

“ _No._ ”

“No fun.”

“If you ever go to a bathhouse Jim, you come to me and make sure every vaccination ever invented is up to date first. I mean it.”

Jim grinned with an air of profound entertainment. “I don’t get you, Bones. You never want to do anything ridiculous with me and you insist on doctoring me up all the time before I go without you, but you seem to have no problem with me doing the things themselves.”

“You forget I recently spent too much time doing such things. It’s about controlled risk. You can bet my vaccinations were up to date, too. Fistfights, on the other hand -- no prevention there, so not something I can get behind. Pike recently told me about your fight in the bar the night before we met. Fucking reckless, Jim.”

“Pike talked to you about me?”

Leo smacked his lips, jointly against the taste of the whiskey and the bitterness of the realization that he might’ve once again said too much. “He’s worried. He said your fight reports are going up again.”

Jim made an indignant noise in his throat and downed the rest of his glass. “He’s trying real hard to become my dad. And now he’s getting my best friend to inform for him!” He gestured in Leo’s direction. “That’s great.”

“He’s your ranking superior, and he _consulted with_ me because I’m your doctor and your friend. You know better than to think I’d tell him anything short of your being in mortal danger. You’re here on his word--”

“Don’t remind me. I hate that I’m here on nepotism, just because I have my father’s name.”

“Okay. Where in the world would you rather be?”

Jim clenched his jaw and avoided Leo’s eye.

“You’re too ambitious to’ve stayed that aimless. You made the right call, nepotism, name, and all, because despite all that you’re still here of your own accord. Your scores are fucking obscene. You somehow find the time to work hard in between your bullshit shenanigans. You have your own goals and you’re on track to earn your own rewards. There isn’t a Kelvin to pilot. You get a different ship. You get a different fate.” Leo held up his glass. “So stop griping and don’t fuck it up.”

Jim’s eyes finally found Leo’s as he pursed his lips, and he clinked his empty glass against Leo’s with some reluctance. “To futures,” he mumbled.

“To futures,” Leo agreed. “Try to avoid giving yourself brain damage before then.”

Jim huffed laughter, but fell quickly into silent contemplation. Leo waited with him until he went to order them a second round (in spite of Leo’s protests); and he slid back into the booth appearing significantly more robust. “So,” he began seriously. “Three years from now. You. Me. The Enterprise. We’re gonna do it.”

“The what? Enterprise? I thought they decommissioned that old thing a century ago.”

“Not that one! Christ, what a clunker that thing was. No, the NCC-1701. Didn’t you see them building it at Riverside? It was there the day we left.”

“I was too busy being gripped by the total and encompassing fear associated with being airborne in a much smaller shuttle to be interested in the massive, far more terrifying one they were building in the other corner."

“I saw the schematics and--”

Leo wrinkled his brow. “How!”

“Hacked into the servers. Doesn’t matter. Point is--”

“Bullshit you did! Those things are tighter than--”

“ _Point is,_ Bones, that this ship was _made_ for me. It has ‘Jim Kirk’ stamped all over it.”

“Oh, does it, now.”

“It _flows_ , you know? It’s the right ship. It’s the best ship Starfleet’s designed in a long time. It comes into service the year we graduate, and it’s gonna be our first assignment.”

“Is it now? Did you hack into the servers and ensure this little detail?”

“I don’t do anything _illicit_ , Bones.”

“Apart from the hacking itself.”

“Semantics.” Jim waved a dismissive hand. “Point is, the Enterprise is meant for us. It’s gonna be our first assignment.”

“We’re gonna be assigned the Federation’s newest flagship as rookies?”

"You wait, Bones."

"You and I probably won’t even be on the same ship.”

Jim took a harsh intake of breath and pressed a hand to his chest. “Blasphemy!”

“Hell, I might request station on a planet.”

Jim looked absolutely horrified. “You _wouldn’t_.”

“Being up there? At all times?” His voice tightened an anxious tone. “In _space?_ ”

“You’re such a baby.”

“It’s a _legitimate phobia._ ”

“I’ve heard the spiel, Bones. We're going to spend next year working it out of you.”

“Oh, are we now? Fat chance.”

“See now, that’s an expression I’ve never understood.”

“Fair warning: if you start waxing philosophic about the physiques of chances, I may leave.”

Jim grinned. “Okay, Bones.”

Leo scowled. “One of these days you are not going to take me seriously, and I actually will leave.”

“Whatever you say, Bones.”

Leo's comm chirped, and he reached into his pocket for it while Jim giggled at him. "Will there _ever_ be a day--" But then he broke off, distracted by the message that flashed by on the comm; and he felt his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

Jim was frowning at him on the other side of the table. “Bones?”

Leo chewed on the inside of his cheek before shutting the comm and tossing it across the table and out of his reach. “It’s nothing,” he muttered unconvincingly.

“What’s up?”

Leo shook his head. “Birthday message from an old flame. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“We never actually got physical, but there was a definite … connection.” Leo swallowed his mounting sense of guilt and took another drink. He was never sure what it was about Jim that made him spill his guts, but he constantly felt himself acquiescing to the impulse to explain himself, particularly when whiskey was involved. Something in those bullshit baby blue eyes, probably. “She was finishing her PhD at the same time that I was," he continued morosely after a moment's pause. "She found me drinking one night at the campus bar not long after ... after my dad died, and chatted me into a better mood. First time that ever worked. Then we just … kept meeting at the same bar at the same time every week.” Leo sniffed. “Eventually she started working on her dissertation in the same lab where I was working for the sake of company and conversation. Y’know. At all hours.”

Jim nodded. “Jocelyn got the wrong idea.”

“Jocelyn got the right idea, but made the wrong accusation," he corrected, waving his drink around. "I’d never have done anything with Nancy without Joce’s permission, but that didn’t preclude feelings.”

“Oops.”

“Our marriage was all but over by then anyway,” Leo added dismissively, “but Nancy was the last nail in the coffin. I told her I had to end our friendship for the sake of my marriage and she understood the words, but not the gesture.” Leo shook his head. “Still wasn’t enough, obviously. Honestly never expected to hear from her again.” He looked thoughtfully at the comm.

“What’d the message say?”

“Just ‘happy birthday’." He cringed. “I don’t know why people insist on doing that.”

“No mention of where she is or anything?”

“No,” Leo said slowly, looking at Jim with suspicion. “What are you--”

Jim snatched Leo’s comm off the table and quickly brought up the most recent message.

“Don’t,” warned Leo, pointing a stern finger across the table at Jim. “Whatever you’re doing -- don’t.”

“I’m making missed connections for you, Bones! Consider it a birthday present.”

“Do not, Jim, I mean it.”

“ _Thanks, darlin’_ ,” Jim narrated as he typed, deepening his voice into a poor imitation of Leo’s. “ _Nice to hear from ya. Whatcha wearin’?_ ”

Leo tried a fervent snatch at the comm from the other side of the table, but Jim was too quick for him. He grinned mischievously across the table at Leo. “Nah, just kidding. I actually wrote, _If you happen to be in San Fran you should come hit me up. It’s my birthday, you know._ ” 

“Jim,” Leo threatened, feeling his eyes popping from his head; but Leo’s rage seemed only to spurn Jim on.

“ _It promises to be a_ bangin’ _good time--_ ”

“Don’t even _think_ about sending that message,” he hissed across the table.

Jim giggled. “Or what? What’re you gonna do?”

Leo clenched his jaw at Jim for a few seconds, who continued to giggle as he hovered a finger threateningly over the send button; and then Leo snapped up from his seat and leapt around the table, climbing fluidly into Jim’s side of the booth and almost clutching the machine from out of his hand. But Jim remained slightly too quick; with a surprised cackle he scrambled back into the corner of the booth and held the unit aloft. Leo grunted and grabbed one of Jim’s wayward feet, dragging him back in his direction and forcing him onto his back on the bench. Leo climbed in over him, supporting his weight with a knee lain across Jim’s shins and his right hand planted on Jim’s hip while he grabbed at the comm with his left. Jim laughed and squirmed, trying to push at Leo’s chest to get him off him and succeeding only to grasp at Leo’s shirt; and Leo’s slight height advantage finally triumphed as Leo wrenched it from Jim’s grasp, snapped it hurriedly shut, and sent it flying awkwardly toward the other side of the booth.

“Ha,” Leo breathed triumphantly, grinning down at Jim and planting a victorious fist lightly against Jim’s chest; but Jim was staring back at him with a serious and heavily libidinous expression, eyes wide and searching, chest heaving under Leo’s planted knuckles. Leo’s grin melted off his face as he registered Jim’s parted lips, as Jim’s free thumb gently traced the line of Leo’s chin where it met his mouth. “Jesus, Jim,” he rumbled, suddenly finding his own breath harsher and heavier; and it was only a fraction of a second before Jim’s hand was around the back of Leo’s neck and pulling him down, Jim leaning up to catch Leo’s lips with his own.

Every one of Leo’s nerves instantly lit up, even as he paused in the moments before his brain caught up to what was happening. Jim’s lips were soft and tentative, though the grip on Leo’s neck was considerably more commanding; and Leo allowed himself a few moments of reckless abandon in spite of the heat unfurling deep within him, welcoming Jim’s mouth against his own, hand curling at Jim’s hip, breathing frantically through his nose as he shifted to allow entrance of Jim’s tongue.

But distantly, his conscience nagged, somehow overriding the effect of the breaking noise in the back of Jim’s throat as Leo’s teeth nipped at Jim’s upper lip; and then he pulled back, straightening up and pushing a heavier fist against Jim’s chest to prevent him from attacking his mouth a second time.

Leo examined Jim carefully and froze to give the fire in his abdomen the opportunity to fizzle out; but Jim looked up at him, heavy-lidded and thoroughly seduced with a fist still clenching loosely in Leo’s shirt, and Leo realized with a compromising jolt that he was fighting a losing battle. He sighed, once, shallowly, and chewed at his own lip in a demonstration of outstanding self-control. 

“You are the only friend I have in the universe,” Leo heard himself say, voice low and barely intelligible over the hum of the crowd behind him; but Jim was hanging on every word. “We can’t fuck this up.”

“We won’t,” Jim promised, hands trying to tug Leo back down toward him; but Leo shook his head and nudged at his chest with his fist.

“You’re not understanding me. I’m not going to give us the opportunity to fuck this up. We’re friends first, Jim. This sets a new paradigm that I’m not interested in.” He searched Jim’s face, which was still cracked far too open; Leo looked for some sign of comprehension. “I can’t do casual. Not with you. So we don’t. You hearing me?”

“Yeah, Bones,” Jim croaked, licking his lips and blinking back to himself. “I’m hearing you.”

“Good.” Leo pushed himself off, using Jim’s chest as leverage, and realized as he unwound them that his fingers had still been curled around Jim’s hip through the duration of his speech.

Jim looked at Leo bewilderedly as Leo moved to stand, following his motions into a sitting position. “I should go,” Jim said slowly.

Leo moved before he had a chance to temper his reaction, a staying hand held aloft. “I’d rather you wouldn’t,” he said quietly, and Jim examined him closely, stopped fidgeting. Leo held Jim’s gaze for a second, then shoved his hands in his pockets. “Is The Rustic on your birthday itinerary?” he asked, his own voice sounding foreign to him, too soft and too warm. He wished for a harsher edge. This was too honest.

Jim frowned at him, as though briefly unsure what to do with him altogether; but eventually he nodded slowly, his hands tugging idly at his own pantleg as he looked curiously at Leo. “Yeah. You want to go?”

Leo echoed the nod and held out a hand to pull Jim to his feet. “I do.”

“Okay,” said Jim, blinking confusion out of his features as Leo leaned over to grab the comm and jacket from the other side of the booth. “We good?” he asked tentatively.

Leo straightened and looked Jim square in the eye. “Yeah, Jim, we’re good,” he said, voice low and sincere as he hooked an arm around Jim’s shoulders, and Jim melted instantly into the touch. “Unless of course you sent that message to Nancy before I had a chance to stop you.”

Jim cracked a reluctant smile. “See for yourself, Bones.”

Leo grumbled low under his breath as they emerged from the bar and flipped the comm open with his free hand. He processed the message with anticipating horror, but wound up frowning his approval at the tasteful and polite message that Jim had actually wound up sending. 

**Leo McCoy to Nancy Pyne**  
 _2256.020 | 20.55.17h_  
Thanks, Nancy, that’s good of you to remember. Good to hear from ya. What’s new in your life? Let’s catch up over vid sometime soon.

“This actually borders on acceptable.”

“I’m so glad you think so,” Jim replied dryly. “I do actually know how to woo people, Bones.”

Leo shot him a dubious glance, and Jim’s smile broadened into a grin. “You didn’t actually need to type out my alleged accent there, though, Jim boy,” Leo muttered, forcing annoyance back into his tone. “I am not that Southern.”

“I keep telling you Bones, you are.”

“I am not,” he argued lightly; and his comm suddenly chimed with Nancy’s reply. “Oh,” Leo said; and he could hear the strangled tone in his voice. “She’s getting married.”

“Aw, shit, Bones. Sorry.”

“Nah, nah, good for her. Really.” Leo batted an idle hand. “Not like she was in my life anyway.” He stared out into the night as they awaited the transit shuttle and willing his gut to calm the hell down with its series of unneeded turbulent reactions; but he was not that lucky, and he felt faintly nauseous with the events of the evening.

When his gaze caught Jim’s again, he was looking at Leo strangely, hands in his pockets, disarming Leo instantly with the stark honesty of his expression. The blue of Jim’s eyes was too fucking piercing, and he looked away to avoid the chance of bursting into flames with the sheer force of it.

Yeah. His life was fucking simple. That much was clear.

\-----  
\-----

Jim had three theories about Bones.

One was that he’d had a secret life as a professional dancer of some kind at some point. Jim had not ruled stripping out completely. Bones could _move,_ man, and not in some random way. He was as trained in footwork as he was in medicine, and Jim wanted to know _why_. And how. And whether he could coax that sort of movement out of Bones more often. And in different contexts. Oh god. He really hoped he’d done stripping.

This second theory was that Bones must have some secret money hidden away somewhere, tied up in a major asset or investment, something that would have robbed him of his equivalent of a graduate student’s salary each month in a divorce proceeding. It didn’t make sense for Jocelyn to have won the divorce when Bones had more credentials and potentially more earning potential, unless Bones’ assets had affected the decision. 

Jim wondered why, if this was the case, Bones would rather join Starfleet than tap into it and set himself up somewhere to doctor on-planet as he would have undoubtedly preferred. But, again related to point #1, if Bones _could_ move, maybe Bones _wanted_ to move, given that motion seemed to soothe him in the way that it did. His friendship with Jim sure suggested as much, allowing himself with grumbles decreasing in degrees of severity to be dragged off to places he’d never been before, his former habits of settlement almost completely vacant from his present practices (although Jim recognized in him a profound love of steady clinic shifts, affection for a lab in which to science around with consistency, and a need for a couple nights a week of complete solitude). But even then, Jim wasn’t totally sure why Bones wouldn’t liquidate whatever assets he might have to ease his schedule somewhat, with so many clinic hours at all times of the day eating up significant amounts of his time and making him look significantly older than he was. So maybe Jim was wrong about that one.

The third theory, predictably, had nothing to do with his past and had everything to do with the benefits of surgically steady hands. Jim spent more hours than he preferred imagining Bones’ hands sliding under his shirt, pads of his fingers running across the lines of his shoulderblades; or Bones’ hands steadying his hips against a wall while Bones fucked his tongue into Jim’s mouth; or Bones’ hands wrapping around his waist to curl around his cock, one finger at a time, and pulling with steady rhythm until Jim moaned and bucked and defiled them with come. 

The theory was that these things would be awesome, if only Bones would get on with his goddamn self and seduce him already.

Not that Jim wasn’t quietly trying to convince him to do it.

“You look tense, Bones,” Jim crooned, much as he did every time they slid into their usual booth at the bar they found most tolerable on campus.

Bones looked up him tiredly. “I don’t know how your program is treating you, Jim, but I have slept a total of twelve hours this week and none of them have been restful. I have three exams next week, a twenty-page paper due Thursday, and my surgical internship has me scheduled for a total of 24 hours this weekend. Meanwhile, the clinic is understaffed because of time booked off due to midterms -- lazy ingrates -- which means that yours truly is picking up the slack.”

“You know you don’t actually have to do that.”

“I do if I don’t want to spend forever as an assistant surgeon on some distant outpost waiting for someone to come save me from ass-backwards social customs and poorly distilled grain alcohol. I’m older than everyone here by a few, and Starfleet has incredible fucking potential to make my life truly miserable unless I get a decent posting.”

Jim frowned dramatically. "You're coming with me onto the Enterprise, Bones, stop worrying about this. I can't believe we're having this conversation again."

"Okay, Jim," Bones said, clearly imitating Jim's usual line; and Jim grinned broadly.

“Just remember that you bring your overachieving on yourself unnecessarily.”

“Says you. Uhura tells me you weaseled your way into the xenolinguistics club -- as goddamn treasurer, no less.”

“I’ll have you know that I am incredibly gifted in the ways of the tongue.”

“She also mentioned that was your motto, yes. You’re going to get yourself arrested with that shit one of these days.”

“I don’t know why you won’t put a solid word in for me with her, Bones.”

“Because you systematically failed to pick up on her cues that she wanted nothing to do with you, and I don’t support that bullshit.”

“That was months ago! She likes me now.”

“No, she likes _me_ and she knows I like you. She might occasionally, out of the kindness of her heart, be something other than a total asshole to you for that reason. That is literally it, Jim. I will unequivocally murder you if you continue to make her feel uncomfortable.”

Jim smiled his most charming smile. “ _You_ like me.”

“Did I already say the part about how I will murder you?”

“Yes, god, message received. I’ve stopped making direct passes! Have you seen me make a pass since, like, September? Fact remains though, Bones, that she’s beautiful and I’m an asshole when it comes to beautiful people. I’ll work on it. Now will you please relax? It looks like your right eye might explode.”

Bones shut his eyes briefly and peeled them back open only to blink blearily around the bar. “Christ,” he muttered to himself, apparently amazed he was still awake at all.

“You are seriously so stressed. You have to do something to counteract the tension in your entire body if you’re going to work this hard.”

“No energy to go out. Not this week.”

“No energy to get laid?”

“No energy to be charming enough to get laid.”

“But you could probably do the deed itself, right?”

“I think I’m still at least that young, yeah. Why, do you know someone who’s--”

Jim spread his arms out wide and grinned. “Friend fuck!”

Okay. ‘ _Quietly_ convince’ might have been an understatement.

Bones blinked slowly and gave Jim a slight, extremely tired smile, eyebrows half-raised in an expression that suggested extreme doubt as to the integrity of this idea.

“There! That look. That’s the look you give me every time I make this suggestion. What is that? Don’t change the subject. What does it mean? What do I do with that?”

Bones gave a light sigh and sat up straighter in the booth, clasping his hands together and leaning on his forearms on the table. “Why?” he asked simply.

Jim gestured in mild incredulity as to the question. “Aforementioned reasons? I’m also totally overloaded and exhausted and could use a solid fuck. Friends help friends. Why wouldn’t you be interested in that?”

Bones continued to stare resignedly at him, shaking his head. “You have no problem finding fuck buddies.”

“Yeah, but they’re not--” Jim paused.

Bones smiled delicately. “They’re not what?”

Jim gave a half-smile of his own and took a sip of his whiskey as he leaned back in the booth. “They’re not as hot as you, Bones,” he articulated clearly.

“Right.” Bones nodded slowly and wrinkled his brow with mock conviction. “ _Friend fuck._ ”

“It is! It could be.”

“It wouldn’t be,” Bones countered immediately.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Bones blinked blankly at him.

“Okay, let’s say -- _let’s say_ \-- it wouldn’t be.” Jim held up defensive hands. “I get it. That kiss on your birthday was hot shit. I’m still thinking about it, I don’t blame you for doing the same. So what? So we do that a lot? Would that be so terrible?”

Bones’ expression softened as he leaned suddenly back, and Jim caught the hint of a smile on his face. “I’m tired. I’m going home to bed. _Alone_ ,” he clarified, holding a halting finger aloft as he snatched up his coat. “Go get your rocks off with someone else. And try not to take any punches in the course of the pursuit, I do not want to be woken up later.”

“You are zero percent fun.”

“See you Monday, Jim. I’m in surgery all weekend.”

“I miss our weekends!”

“Blah blah, blabbity blah,” he replied as he walked away.

And so Jim, annoyingly and to his ongoing mild confusion, was left only with theories.

\---

It was two solid weeks before Jim saw Bones again in a capacity more significant than passing meals, which usually only involved Bones giving half-replies to Jim’s energetic rants while he scrolled quickly through his study notes on the PADD during the fifteen minutes he’d allegedly allotted himself for food consumption.

(“And that’s the story of how I totally did your mom,” Jim had concluded once, shoving a carrot stick into his mouth and chewing obnoxiously.

“My mom’s been dead ten years,” Bones had replied distractedly around a mouthful of lasagne, “so for your sake I hope you didn’t.”

“You _are_ paying attention!”

“I’m used to being issued complex instructions while wrist-deep in internal organs lately, Jim. Unfortunately, I heard every damn word you said. I don’t know if I can look at another strawberry for as long as I live. Please never ruin peaches for me in this way.”)

Jim accordingly hadn’t really been surprised to slide into Bones’ room at the usual time that Friday only to find Bones totally passed out on the bed, still wearing his uniform and unstirring despite the noisy intrusion. Jim had grinned down at him for a moment before slipping off Bones’ shoes and unceremoniously tossing his feet more completely onto the bed.

“Mmph?” Bones had asked.

“Sleepy Bones,” Jim had sung back at him, tugging the free half of the blankets over him.

“Exam.”

“No more exams. Sleep on, Bonesington.” He’d set an affectionate hand on Bones’ chest and turned to leave, but Bones’ reflexes were razor sharp even when exhausted, and he caught Jim’s retreating wrist between his fingers.

“Where you goin’,” he grunted, eyes staying closed.

“Out,” Jim had replied, smile tugging at his features. “Been a day. Need to blow off some steam.”

Bones had made a noise that sounded suspiciously like an angry complaint and tugged lightly at Jim’s arm. “What, you want me to stay?” Jim asked.

Bones made another noise, one sounding significantly more like sleepy assent, and Jim’s smile grew very broad, very quickly.

“I’m not gonna be able to just lie there with you, Bones. We gonna fuck after all?”

“No,” he’d replied; then quietly added, “sleepy.”

Jim barely suppressed a wending giggle. “I’ve gotta go out, then. Simmer down, go back to sleep.”

“Mmph.” Another protest. 

Jim delicately removed Bones’ fingers from his wrist. “When was the last time you slept?”

A pause, then -- “Wensday?”

Jim had scoffed. “You’re useless to me, then. We’ll go to the bar tomorrow and complain about everything, but you’re staying here tonight and getting some fucking shut-eye. You hearing me?”

A long pause, and then -- “Yeah, Jim. I’m hearin’ you.”

“Good.” Jim had ordered the lights down to 20 percent and given Bones a final, doleful glance before finally turning to slip out the door. “Bye, Bones.”

But he’d already been dead to the world.

Bones hadn’t shown at the bar the night following, to Jim’s mild annoyance, but which had prompted a bit of extremely tasty remorse on Monday (“How many days did you sleep, Bones?” Jim had asked without looking up from his PADD, to which Bones had replied, “got you a burrito,” and to which Jim had grinningly replied “apology accepted”); but Jim was busy in his own right, anyway, brushing up on his Vulcan and Klingon for the xenolinguistics club in the scant few hours he had between his own series of exams and papers, which he was in turn fitting between the series of _social commitments_ he’d made on alternating evenings through the dreaded week of midterms so as to avoid acute insanity.

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” Bones had muttered over an early dinner on Thursday as Jim sent comm messages with a grin that may or may not have been extremely revealing as to his intentions.

“If you’re less sleepy now, Bones, I can take you up on that offer you made last week and climb into bed with you instead,” Jim had replied idly.

At this Bones had scowled into his dinner and said haltingly, “I never know what fresh hell is coming out of your mouth,” which of course was code for _I remember that perfectly and accordingly avoided you for the rest of the weekend because I didn’t know what to do with myself_ ; and to which Jim had replied with “I’m just making sure I get through this week in one piece, Bones,” which of course was code for _I would’ve done it if you’d asked me with more actual words, you know_ ; and to which Bones had quietly replied, “I know,” which wasn’t code for anything; and when Jim had finally looked up from his comm, Bones had been gone.

Jim scowled and immediately sent him a comm message.

 **Jim Kirk to Bones McCoy**  
 _2256.052 | 18.01:46h_  
You’re not escaping me this weekend, I’m coming to get you tomorrow.

Bones had replied some hours later with only a casual _yeah, yeah_ as Jim was reviewing his notes on Klingon; and Jim grinned with the confirmation that he’d actually be there this time.

He forgot about Klingon and opted instead to research new bars.

“Dancing?” Jim asked him breezily the next evening after bursting in Bones’ door at the usual time.

“Bar,” Bones overruled, reaching for his comm. “I need a break from effort.”

“Long week, Bones.” He tapped his feet anxiously to emphasize his high energy.

“Every week is long with you,” Bones scowled back, grabbing Jim’s arm and half-throwing him out of his quarters. “For someone who got laid last night, you’re sure whiny as hell.”

“That was a whole day ago already!”

“You know there’s a medical term for--”

“Just kidding! Bar it is,” Jim chirped loudly, and Bones gave a slow grin.

Jim had expected his answer, anyway, and had chosen a place that served the dual purpose in case Bones changed his mind; but all that went to hell as soon as Jim stepped foot into the bar’s main basin.

“Whoa!” Jim pulled Bones abruptly aside, receding into the shadows and taking Bones with him. “Okay,” he said slowly, giving a nervous laugh and running a hand through his hair. “Never thought I’d see that face again.”

“Old ex?” Bones drawled, tone sardonic as he tugged at the sleeve of his jacket annoyedly.

“Not an ex, per se.”

“What, then?”

“Bounty hunter,” he said lightly, hazarding a glance back around the corner.

“Bounty hunter?!”

“Yyyeah.”

Bones narrowed his eyes at Jim, trying to ascertain if he was serious. But watching Jim’s fervent glances seemed to convince him, and Bones too hazarded a glance around the corner. “What kind of bounty hunter we talking about?”

“Law type. I did some, uh, _ambitious_ things that may not have been entirely legal back in the day.”

“Half a year ago, you mean?”

“He works for the National Service, he’s not a mob lackie or anything.”

“So he doesn’t want to kill you.”

“Well, he probably wants to, but he doesn’t have the authorization to.”

“Reassuring,” Bones bit sarcastically.

“Do me a favour and keep an eye on him, make sure he’s not coming this way? I need to think about this.”

Bones rolled his eyes, but did as Jim asked. “We talkin’ about that guy in civvies not actually looking very civilian? Buzz cut, corner of the room?”

“Yeah -- phaser probably visible in his holster?”

“That’s inconspicuous. Yeah, he’s happy with his beer.” Bones returned his gaze to Jim’s. “Let’s just get outta here. He may not even be looking for you.”

“Oh, he is,” Jim promised. “This is not his jurisdiction. If he’s here, he knows I’m in the city. It’s just a matter of time before he finds me. More than he already has, I mean.” He chewed the inside of his cheek. “I have to deal with this now.”

“Did you piss this guy off that much?”

“Yeah,” he said easily.

“What’d you do?”

Jim made a face and hummed as though contemplating his wording. “Stole his identity.”

Bones set upon him with a hard glare. “Christ Almighty, Jim!”

“Just briefly!”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“It was for a good cause.”

“I highly doubt that. How long ago?”

“Two years? It all blurs together. When _was_ I in New Mexico?”

Bones rolled his eyes. “How are you going to deal with this, then?”

“I’m thinking,” Jim placated quietly. He stared at Bones, feeling his eyes narrow as he ran a few dozen scenarios through his head.

Bones huffed and peered around the corner again. “He’s making his way around the room, talking to people seemingly at random. Maybe he _is_ looking for you.”

“No shit, Bones. Is he coming this way?”

“Sort of--”

“Quick! Make out with me.” He tugged at Bones’ jacket.

Bones’ lips twitched into an annoyed smile as he removed Jim’s hands from his person. “So glad you’re taking this seriously.”

“I am! It’s just also hot. Running from the law, Bones! Can you think of anything better?”

“Yes! I can think of a great many things better than running from the law! _Damnit_ , Jim.”

“Shhh, don’t say my name.”

“Trust _you_ ,” Bones began, actual anxiety starting to creep into his tone, “to walk into a bar and run into someone who’s trying to kick your ass _professionally_. He’s probably surprised no one’s beat him to it.”

Jim’s eyes shot up to meet Bones’, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Bones’ expression hardened. “Whatever your idea is -- no.”

“We need handcuffs,” Jim replied.

“ _No,_ ” Bones reiterated.

“Not for sex!”

“I know not for sex! Still no!”

“It’s the _only way_.”

“Dubious conjecture.”

“Come on, Bones! It’s your lucky day. You finally get to tackle me to the ground and restrain me!”

“No? How many times can I say no.”

“You look stern enough to be convincing as a cop, and you definitely hate me enough to look convincing in arresting me.”

“Got that part right.”

“It doesn’t even need to be regulation handcuffs,” Jim continued, ignoring Bones. “I’ve been arrested by off-duty officers enough times--”

“Christ.”

“--that we can totally improvise here.”

“How many times _have_ you been arrested?”

“Depends. Does it count as an arrest if it didn’t take?”

Bones glanced nervously around the corner. “I have a new idea. Why don’t I just leave and let you deal with your own bullshit?” He gave Jim a grim smile and stepped in the direction of the exit, but Jim caught him with an arm around his torso and brought him stumbling back.

“Bones, look, stop, let me explain,” he began slowly, eyes setting themselves upon Bones with sincerity. 

"This oughta be good,” Bones growled, but raised an eyebrow and stood still.

“I don’t know if you’ve ever been to the southwest, but the mining industry is corrupt as shit. People are still trying to tap into fossil fuels for god knows why -- to run obsolete ‘vintage’ machinery, or for use in illegal operations where they can’t manufacture the fuel cells to run the thing. These mining operations are obviously themselves totally illegal, and it’s dirty fucking work, so they hire people in dire circumstances -- off-worlders, usually, who don’t have a credit to their name -- to do it. People were getting injured and sick and weren’t getting medical care when I was in New Mexico -- some of them were dying -- and Jacobs fucking knew about it.” Jim pointed through the wall behind him. “He knew about the whole thing, and he chose to do nothing about it. Turns out he had a deal with the frontrunners and was getting a stipend under the table to turn a blind eye.” He shrugged. “So I shaved my head, clinched his badge, and busted the operation myself.”

Bones stared at him with the sort of expression that denoted he had absolutely no idea whether Jim was being serious.

“Corruption is everywhere in the National Service,” Jim continued, “but it’s not a corrupt _organization_ , and a lot of people were helped into better circumstances after that. I figured Jones would either get promoted by the powers that be or killed by the powers that aren’t, and to be honest I didn’t care which. I legitimately never thought I’d see him again either way, but here he is.” Jim shrugged again, and Bones’ expression became increasingly scrutinous as he realized Jim was being as serious as he ever got. “Look, there’s no way the impersonation is on the record; if he’s alive he’s probably benefiting from the fruits of my labour. Which I don’t care about! He’s probably at a desk job now, off the streets, and that sounds totally ideal to me. But he’s still probably suffering at the hands of the owners of the mines, and wants to arrest me for something else, for vengeance reasons or whatever. He’ll find a charge to apply. I have enough fights registered on my record to make it easy for him to make a compelling case against me for some imagined incident.”

Bones blinked, one eye contorted painfully as he processed this information. “You impersonated a cop -- to do their police work for them?”

Jim pursed his lips and glanced up at Bones through his eyelashes.

“Who in the hell are you?”

Jim shrugged for a third time, humility forcing into his gestures. “I hate corruption in the first place, and I hate it more when it’s victimizing folks at a disadvantage. Now at this particular moment, Bones, I am at a disadvantage, and I hope you’ll find the same disposition in your heart to help me out of this. Can we get on with it before Old Jacobs goes to take a piss and finds us standing in the entranceway to the fucking bar he’s working his way around? I really don’t want to go to jail.”

Bones crossed his arms and regarded Jim with a haughty expression. “I’m still not completely sure this is _our_ problem to deal with.”

“Bones. Please.” Jim took a shallow breath, exhaling sharply through his nose. “I … _need your help_.”

Bones’ face split open unexpectedly into a wide grin. “That was damned near impossible for you to get out.”

“I could totally handle this on my own,” he backpedaled breezily, “but I would rather include you, because you’re really boring and would stay indoors all the time if I didn’t drag you out. A little rebellion will be good for you. If someone else arrests me first, hopefully he’ll be satisfied that I’ve gotten my comeuppance or whatever and leave me alone for a while.”

“I swear to fucking god, Jim,” he muttered, then peered around the corner again to check on Jacobs’ location. “All right, fine. I’ll arrest your ass.”

“Thank you, Bones. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to hear from you.” He glanced nervously to his left, and Bones took the cue and checked more thoroughly. “Now we just have to figure out--”

But Jim cut off at the sight of Bones undoing his own belt and fluidly pulling it out from the loops of his pants. In four steps he’d fashioned it into convincingly functional pair of cuffs, and Jim felt the grin spread slowly across his face as his heart rate got away from him.

“I am so glad I know you,” he gushed as Bones held the cuffs aloft.

Bones stared at him with the same piercingly blank expression he used when he was pretending he was annoyed with Jim, and which Jim always actually found to be extremely provocative. “Let’s get on with it,” Bones replied.

“How romantic.”

“Stop or I’m leaving. What’s your play?”

"Simple. I wander in, casually, pretending to be the hot shit I actually am, and you tackle me to the ground in about ten seconds as I make my way over to the bar. You then loudly announce my arrest and put me in those damn fine handcuffs of yours--" Jim paused to give a slight, involuntary thrill of laughter while Bones' expression slackened with incredulous irritation -- "and you haul me out of here before Jacobs figures out it's a set-up."

"And what if he does figure out it's a set-up?"

"He won't."

"Your baseless faith is reassuring."

"If he stops us, we run."

Bones scowled. " _Simple,_ " he reiterated with great annoyance. “Just one problem among a great many, Jim: I don’t have any credentials.”

“You have your medical credentials on you.”

“I’d forgotten, you’re right, they’re exactly the same. ...Oh, wait, no, just a second -- they’re actually _completely different._ ”

“Just flash it. If worse comes to worst, you’re with Starfleet security.”

“They don’t have jurisdiction here.”

“Neither does he.”

“This is by far the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“Ready?”

“Not remotely.”

“See you in a second, Officer Bones.”

Jim swaggered out into the bar before Bones could get another word in, and suddenly felt extremely nervous with the realization that he was willingly walking into a situation in which his imminent arrest was likely and placing his entire trust into another human being. It was definitely nothing he’d ever done before, except insofar as he’d aligned himself with certain others who tended to live off the land as he’d done for most of the last several years; and those occasions usually ended him Jim either screwing someone over or being the one screwed. Here, he was trusting someone to _help_ him for the first time, to leave the past behind him and move toward something better; and for better or worse, Bones was the best person on the earth to trust with that particular project.

He was halfway toward the bar when he’d turned in surprised toward the force of the angry shout of “James Kirk!” from behind him; and he’d barely had time to brace himself for his sudden impact with the ground.

“Finally caught you, asshole,” said Bones, looking menacingly at him as he wrenched Jim around and threw him prone against the floor. Jim gave the illusion of struggling as Bones’ hands closed around his wrists, one hand and then the other squeezed through the loops of the belt-cuffs, before Jim was brought competently to his feet. “You’re under arrest for the impersonation of an officer of the law--”

Jacobs suddenly pushed his way through the crowd with a declaratory series of “Excuse me”s that demonstrated the sheer force of his perceived privilege to Jim’s arrest, and assessed them both with skepticism, one hand on his phaser. “Excuse me, just what’s going on here?”

Jim couldn’t see Bones’ face, but he had the impression that the pregnant pause involved a terribly indignant facial expression. “Nothing to see, hoss, just a routine arrest,” he said, altogether too calmly. “I hope you’re licensed with that firearm.”

Jacobs pointed at Jim. “That’s my mark.”

“ _Your_ mark? Don’t think so. I’ve been chasing this fucker down from literally across the country. I got him; he’s mine.”

“And who the hell are you?”

Jim flashed alarm as he realized he hadn’t advised Bones to use a fake name, and he turned slowly to face him with a cocked eyebrow that he hoped would convey some form of message; but the briefest of pauses suggested that Bones had already caught on. “I’m -- Officer Bones,” he said evenly.

Jim almost completely fucking lost it. 

Bones immediately set his jaw, apparently in disbelief at the words that had just tumbled out of his mouth; and Jim forced his mouth into an extremely thin line as he tried to choke back the wild laughter that was fluttering in his chest. The jab in his back, however, told him he was not totally succeeding. “Len Bones, with the Atlanta PD,” he said smoothly, and if Jim hadn’t been frantically beating back hysterics he thought he would have surely felt impressed at Bones’ seamless competence. “And you are?”

“Agent Harold Jacobs, with the National Service, which in this case means I’m authorized to take into custody any offender with an outstanding warrant--”

Bones hummed in faux contemplation. “I’m gonna stop you there, Jacobs, because last I checked, the National Service still kept to jurisdictional regulation. You’re not the Armed Forces, after all. I’m going to go out on a limb and assume your jurisdiction does not include San Francisco?”

Jacobs stared.

“That’s what I thought,” Bones continued after the appropriate number of beats, “so we’re both in the same boat here. Given that I seem to’ve beat you to it, I’m gonna go ahead and take him in myself, and that noise better mean you’re choking to death, Kirk.”

“No sir,” Jim managed, somehow swallowing the mirth that had been struggling to escape from his lungs. “I just think Officer Bones might be the … the funniest name I’ve ever heard. What, do you have an army of cadavers outside waiting to carry me off to the underworld?”

“Don’t push it, kid,” Bones growled at him, and Jim was helpless to prevent the spread of the grin across his face. 

“A skeleton crew, perhaps?”

“Are you taking this at all seriously?”

“I was,” Jim nodded, “but then I remembered your name was Officer Bones and it’s been downhill from there. Tell me, do you work with dogs these days? They must _love_ you.”

“ _Shut up,_ ” Bones hissed, hitching at the constraints around his wrists; but, incredibly, Jacobs seemed to be buying it.

“He’s insolent, this one,” Jacobs said to Bones.

“You’re telling me,” Bones replied, and then -- incredulously -- he totally fucking sold it without a moment’s pause. “He tried to impersonate me out in Atlanta. Dyed his hair and everything, busted some gang operation, fancied himself some sort of goddamned Robin Hood. Been chasin’ him down for three years solid.”

Jacobs nodded fervently. “Me too! Bastard’s got some sort of vendetta against us lawfolk.”

“You can say that again. Ran into another fella from Austin three months back by the name of Lyson, says the same damn thing happened to him.”

“Well, shit.”

“It’s _really_ sweet of you guys to stand around singing my praises like this,” Jim interjected, “but if this is going to keep going, d’you think one of you could buy me a beer? Something to pass the time.”

“Shut up, Kirk,” Bones and Jacobs said simultaneously, and Jim transformed his default grin into the most insolent expression he could imagine.

“Little shit’s got a point,” Bones said. “Better take him in before he weasels his way out of this somehow. Seems he’s got a reputation for that. If you want, Jacobs, I’ll add your charge to the one I’m already applying along with Lyson’s, save you the paperwork. He’s also wanted on outstanding warrant for grand larceny in Atlanta, and I’d love to get him on as much as I can at once.”

Jacobs scrutinized Bones carefully, apparently realizing that he had nothing nearly as concrete as this; then finally removed his hand from his phaser. “I guess that makes the most sense. I’ll comm the department my information. We’ll be in touch.”

Bones nodded brusquely and wrenched Jim toward the front doors while the crowd watched on. Bones navigated the corridor easily, though his breath seemed to be coming to him in sharp bursts; and they made their way quickly toward the exit.

Jim felt thrill and hilarity burble forth within him once again, and his loud burst of laughter coincided with Bones’ shaky exhale the second they broke outside.

“I completely fucking loathe you,” Bones breathed in his ear, sounding not at all calm.

“Officer Bones!!” was all Jim managed before losing himself in overwhelming hysterics.

“Shut the _fuck up_ , you goddamn _lunatic,_ ” Bones hissed. “You’re responsible for that, don’t fucking start with me. We need to get far away from here, right the hell now.”

“We’re in the ‘burbs, Bones, parks to hide in everywhere. Go left,” Jim said breathily, pulling Bones in that direction.

“Hiding! We’re hiding now.” Bones’ voice was that constrained tone higher in the way he got when someone started talking in detail about space, the way he sounded when he was doing everything he possibly could to hang on to his last shred of sanity in the face of blind, unadulterated terror -- and Jim’s hysterical giggle was anything but sympathetic.

“Bones. Bones. You sold it. You sold it so well. I had no idea you were that good under pressure.”

“I’m a surgeon, you arrogant fuckwit. And stop calling me that fucking name.”

“He didn’t even ask for your credentials! We make a great team.”

“We do not. We are never doing anything like this again, do you hear me?”

“Good tackle, by the way.”

“‘Good tackle’? Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

“Can you imagine us landing on planets ten years from now, when I’m Captain and you’re CMO--”

“I have lost all higher cognitive functions, so no, I can’t.” Bones yanked at Jim’s hands, guiding him into a nearby swatch of trees and fussing at the belt that continued to constrain his wrists.

“--doing shit like this all the _time_ \--”

“Shut the fuck up, Jim, I’ve heard enough of your bullshit.”

“--getting out of hairy situations with my wit and your calm under pressure--”

“I said I’ve heard _enough,_ ” Bones growled, and wrenched Jim around to face him. Bones’ eyes were wild and bright with panic, his chest heaving in time with Jim’s; and it was scant seconds before the smile hitching itself over Jim’s cheekbones made something break in Bones’ gaze, brought him to throw the belt in his hand aggressively to the ground, forced from his chest a compromising snarl as his hands snapped to Jim’s face. Bones’ lips crushed against his, followed closely by an angry mess of teeth and tongue; and at the same time that Jim stepped back in surprise by the force of the gesture, he gripped at Bones’ jacket to bring him in closer. Bones followed easily, reading Jim’s movements and stepping with him, his hands unfathomably steady but his body trembling under Jim's hands; and then they shuddered to a halt, Bones’ mouth no longer frantic but purposeful and slow, breath struggling to steady in deep heaves through his nose as his tongue swept across Jim’s lower lip. A quiet noise was brought out from Jim’s throat as his breath caught somewhere in his chest, and Bones tugged at Jim’s lip with the gentle pressure of his teeth before breaking away and leaning their foreheads heavily together.

Jim grasped onto Bones’ shoulders as they stood, their chests still heaving, breaths colliding and furling together before scattering off as one into the night. “Nothing hotter than running from the law, Bones,” Jim croaked after a few steadying seconds had passed; and Bones gave a broken grunt as he pushed harshly away.

“Have I told you recently that I hate you?”

“Mm! As demonstrated.” Jim grinned broadly.

Bones continued to stare at him. “It was either that or punch you in the face,” he muttered, apparently unsure of how to take the reality of his own instigation of these events.

“Okay.” He shrugged happily. “I’m not complaining. Wanna do it again?”

“No!” Bones stepped forward again with a stern finger extended. “We are not doing _any_ of that _ever_ again. I’m not your lackie, I’m not your _accomplice_.”

“I know that, Bones,” Jim said calmly.

“You can’t just--” he paused, waved a hand, didn’t finish the sentence.

“Okay.”

“I kissed you because I needed grounding as a direct result of the bullshit you just put me through. Nothing else is coming out of it.”

“Okay. Got it.” Jim felt himself nodding. “Did it help?”

Bones stared at him. “Somewhat,” he grunted, as though displeased about it.

“Good! Happy to provide.”

Bones huffed angrily and looked at the ground around him. “We’re going back to campus now,” Bones informed him, locating the belt and wending it quickly back through his beltloops, “and you’re buying me a very large bottle of good fucking quality bourbon, and then we’re going to return to my quarters and make quick work of it while we watch some bullshit mindless film, preferably with explosions.”

“Fucking A, I’m down for that. Can we order food?”

“I cannot _believe_ you’re hungry after that, but fine.”

“Running from the law--”

“Stop calling it that!”

“--is hungering work, Bones.”

“The movie also can’t have any cops in it,” he amended suddenly.

“Okay.” The spread of the smile across his face was slow and strikingly genuine as he watched Bones cross his arms tightly against his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible, and then as he nodded behind him to indicate that they were leaving.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Bones asked cantankerously.

Jim gave a shrug that suggested bewilderment. “You came through, Bones,” he said quietly. “Thanks.”

His expression softened only slightly, but enough; and Jim bounded suddenly toward him and threw an arm joyfully over his shoulders. “That reminds me, I have to falsify a report with Atlanta PD about Officer Len Bones’ arrest of one infamous Robin Hood rebel James T. Kirk before we start drinking.”

Jim could still feel Bones’ slight tremors continue beneath his arm as they made their way out of the other side of the park. “I really do not like you right now.”

“Are you gonna tell me that after every planetside away mission?”

“I’m not contributing to your grandiose fantasies,” Bones grumbled, and then suddenly his hand was on Jim’s hip as he leaned his weight hard against him. “Christ, Jim. Impersonating the law. Can’t you have hobbies like normal people?”

“Admit it,” Jim crooned, adjusting to better support Bones as the adrenaline pumped out of his system. “You had fun.”

“What I _had_ was damn near a coronary,” he bit back.

“Okay, Bones,” Jim said, grinning widely; and he didn’t stop grinning until long after they’d both wordlessly ducked out of sight beneath the windows of the transit shuttle on their way back to campus.

\---

Bones was asleep before the film’s first explosion, slumped against Jim in some weirdly possessive way, like despite everything he was ultimately fucking glad Jim wasn’t presently on his way to jail; and Jim spouted a Captain’s log (supplemental) quietly into the depths of Bones’ quarters between mouthfuls of take-out in spite of Bones’ weight leaned against him.

“Doctor McCoy continues to confuse the hell out of me,” he told the imaginary computer as Bones shifted against the rumble of Jim’s voice in his chest, “but for some fucking reason I don’t seem to actually mind much. Overall, I’d say the mission was a success. The rogue Jacobs was successfully deferred, at least for now; and coziness has since been achieved. Will we encounter this enemy again? Only time will tell. Kirk out.”

“You’re an unbelievable nerd,” Bones told him sleepily; and Jim gave an entertained burst of surprised laughter.

“High praise from you, o King of the Nerds,” he returned fondly, wrenching Bones back toward him with the heel of the hand holding his fork as Bones tried to straighten up. “Quiet down, narcoleptic, I’m trying to watch a movie.”

For once in his life, Bones said nothing, only smiled, the twitch of his cheek felt even through Jim’s sweater; and Jim remained completely convinced they’d wind up going on countless more missions together, whether Bones liked it or not.


	3. March-June 2256

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter totally ran away from me. Also, the rating for the fic changed. Are those things related? You decide!
> 
> Bones also talks about the death of his father in this chapter.
> 
> Notes at the bottom are mostly just me apologizing for what you just read.

Leo had three theories about Jim.

One was that he got into fights because it was how he desensitized himself to blood. Leo wondered if maybe Jim could face up to the reality of spilled blood for what were basically arbitrary causes when it was his own blood that was drying on his face or splattered against his shirt. He wondered if Jim looked at himself in the mirror after a fight and told himself, “this happens,” forcing himself to take stock of the color and substance of it, to see it congealing outside of his body, and make it a part of his reality that he could shrug off someday. Blood got spilled. Maybe senseless violence started to make sense to him the more he was exposed to it.

The second was that he got into fights because he was trying to ruin his goddamned pretty-boy features _intentionally_. Leo had occasionally, in his more drunken moments when he was watching Jim more closely than he might otherwise be inclined, been perplexed by the scars on his face in the same way he was constantly perplexed by Jim’s stubborn refusal to let Leo _fix him, damnit_ , when his face persisted in displaying evidence of said fights in the days following. There were a lot of them, the fights and the injuries, and the only times Leo was actually able to regenerate his wounds properly were after Jim passed out in his quarters following particularly raucous evenings involving great scads of tequila -- or when the injuries were severe enough to land him in sickbay. Jim seemed to take stock of the state of his face when it was swollen or bruised in a different way, and Leo thought he might likewise revel in the scars that were left behind; and that worried Leo a hell of a lot.

He had dug up enough over the holiday break to figure out that the thirteen-year-old boy whose name had been redacted in the official Tarsus IV records was in fact probably Jim. Francis Keating, “survived by sister Winona and nephew James,” had had a brief and vague obituary published in the _Riverside Daily_ a few days after the events of Tarsus; the unnamed Witness 6, meanwhile, had been present during the execution of his uncle, who had taken him to Tarsus on a yearlong work contract while looking after him. The link was weak at best, Leo knew; but the age was right, for one thing, and access to Jim’s psych eval once he was cleared as Jim’s primary care doctor had also helped him connect the dots ( _ongoing psychological strain resulting from unnamed past event forces bouts of rage and a prevalent impulsivity and recklessness likely to negatively impact cadet's performance_ ).

He’d also read enough of Jim’s medical history and about Kodos’ eugenics to realize that Jim would’ve almost definitely been among those targeted for execution. He had been a sickly boy, likely resulting in part from a childhood spent moving quickly around the galaxy without consistent immunization. This was confirmed by the long list of allergies, particularly to various hypos, in his file; and though records from the year in question were patchy, Leo was willing to bet that Jim had been enough of a drain on Tarsus’ medical system to make his presence known to Kodos.

This meant that, under Kodos’ rudimentary understanding of how genetics actually worked -- regardless of whether Frank Keating had likewise required medical attention at all in the ten months he’d been on-planet leading up to Kodos’ execution -- he would have been lumped in with Jim as too unhealthy to sustain.

And Frank had died; but Jim had survived.

Sometimes Leo caught Jim staring at himself in the mirror while he was in Leo’s quarters, waiting for him to get ready for whatever they were doing that night. It was almost imperceptible, the switch between neutrality and the hint of distance that graced his expression when he was lost in his own history. His hands tended to close into gentle fists in the pockets of his jacket as he examined his own face, his expression somewhere between forlorn and determined. These were the nights Leo knew to suggest dancing instead, to blow off steam in some other way than throwing punches -- and it usually worked, and Leo was happy about that. But on the days when Leo wasn’t around and Jim engaged himself in a bar fight anyway, he’d catch him going out of his way to catch a glimpse of himself -- him and his “battle scars” -- in some reflective surface in the days following, as though this was the way he thought he was _supposed_ to look after Tarsus.

“Do you get off on this?” Leo had asked him softly one day when Jim had begrudgingly sought him out in his room to seal a gash in his brow that was bleeding into his eye. Leo had been distantly angry, out of concern mostly; but his tone had been sincere, and Jim seemed to register that with a flick of his eyes.

“No, Bones,” he’d replied, despondent and annoyed in equal measure. “I don’t get off on this.”

“What is it, then?”

Jim had shrugged and kept silent while Leo worked. “I’m lucky,” he said eventually.

Leo scoffed. “Not from what I can tell you’re not.”

“There’s no real skill in it. I catch breaks. Nothing ever really breaks me completely. It’s luck.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Pressing your luck? Are you literally _pressing your_ \--”

“I’m not--” Jim had begun fiercely, but he seemed to lose track of the words he was looking for. He made a noise of frustration deep in his throat and kicked off Leo’s bed. “Nevermind.” He’d grabbed his coat and spun toward the door, but Leo had been too quick for him and snatched at his arm.

“Stop,” he’d implored angrily. “Stop this. I hate having to repair you.”

“You don’t have to repair me.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I’m not a project.”

“I’m not treating you like one, but this is fucking insane. Are you trying to find your breaking point?”

“No,” Jim had replied, expression showing faint surprise. “I’m trying to make sure I never do.”

Leo had gaped at him, moving his jaw wordlessly. “That is the stupidest fucking bullshit I’ve ever heard in my life. You will get yourself killed.”

Jim had shaken his head slowly, lips pursing. “I’m not insane, and I’m not an idiot.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Will you let go of my arm?”

Leo did, and clacked his teeth angrily together as Jim slipped soundlessly out of the room.

The third theory, which Leo much preferred over the second, was that he got into fights because he had to in order to thrive. Maybe fighting was to Jim as movement was to Leo: a way to keep his emotions under wraps. Jim’s semester was as tight as Leo’s was, and Leo was barely holding on; yet Jim was generally as cheerful and robust as he ever was in spite of the intolerable strain. He was performing well in his classes, too, as he’d discovered when Pike had taken him aside to ask after Leo’s assessment of Jim’s recklessness in fighting. So if Jim fought to keep himself on his toes the rest of the time...

...No. Leo still couldn’t accept that. Jesus Christ. Of all the things to find relaxation in.

Regardless -- whatever it was Jim was trying to do, Leo had been forced to notice, begrudgingly, that he was starting to get smarter in fights as time went on, at least insofar as he was relying less on instinct and displaying something more like choreography. He’d always been predictive of his opponent’s moves, Leo had noticed in the relatively few fights he’d actually been present to witness; but he got much better at countering selectively and putting the onus on his opponent to make the first mistake instead. He seemed suddenly to show footwork that passed as strategic rather than defaulting to mad brawling leaps, and in spite of his furious resignation every time a fight broke out when Leo was in the bar with him, he had to admit he was feeling a bit more impressed about the injuries Jim _did_ sustain (in that they were significantly less avoidable than had many of his previous “battle wounds” had been, anyway).

“I don’t get it, kid,” Leo had quietly reminded him while patching him up one day after a particularly lengthy battle with some guy who had, in fact, started it had resulted in two broken fingers, a broken rib, and a spectacularly bruised jaw for Jim.

“You will,” he replied stiffly.

“I doubt that.”

“People don’t pull punches up there, Bones. Not like they do here.” He’d glanced at Bones and attempted a wincing smile. “You’ll see, someday. Meanwhile: stop worrying.”

Leo did not, in fact, stop worrying, and he begrudged the fucking advice.

\-----  
\-----

Jim was -- though he could hardly believe it himself -- actually worried.

For the first time ever, Jim had slid into Bones’ quarters at the usual impeccable 2100h exactly on Friday night to find them completely empty. Bones was not asleep or in the shower or dressing or kicked back in his office chair; he was actually not physically in the room, and there was nothing on Jim’s comm to suggest a change of plans.

And though odd, that had initially been _fine_. Bones was an adult, and a busy one at that. Whatever. Jim could wait. He peeled a banana and hitched his feet up onto Bones’ desk as he rifled idly through his drawers, and that was plenty entertaining enough anyway.

But then it was 2130h, and Bones was still not there. Not replying to comms. Not showing any signs of acknowledging Jim might’ve been waiting for him at all. And that seemed uncharacteristic.

Jim compensated by comming him seven times in seven minutes -- to no avail.

At 2145h, the reality was inescapable: This was worry.

It was less worry about whether Bones was safe and more worry that Bones had left him, Jim realized. He was concerned Bones had decided Jim was too much of a loose cannon to deal with, and was now in hiding. It may not have been _rational_ , Jim admitted; but Bones had never been absent on a Friday before, or if he had never been so cruel as to forget to warn Jim about it first, and--

The door opened suddenly, and Bones stumbled in. He stopped in the middle of the room, frowning at the sight of Jim; then he checked the time on his bedside table and furrowed his brow. “Jim,” he said, half-apologetically but still half-panicked, as though he wasn’t sure which way his emotional compass was pointed; and Jim cocked his head to the side, forgetting any erstwhile panic as he took in the sight of him.

“Bones?” Jim watched as Bones moved mechanically over to the wardrobe and shirked off his clothes as quickly as he seemed able. He moved as though the fabric was burning against his skin, throwing them abruptly on the floor, then tearing wildly through the drawers as though looking for more than just something else to wear.

“Bones?” he inquired again, gently; and when Bones looked at him, he almost felt inclined to take a step back with the intensity of his stare. “Jesus. Are you okay?”

“Bad day,” he offered abruptly, fussing with his t-shirt until he finally got it properly oriented.

“Yeah, I can see that.”

Bones looked up at Jim, still wide-eyed and looking as though he might bolt any second. “Can we go out?”

“Yeah, fuck yeah. You wanna go drink or--"

“I want to go to one of your,” he waved a perfunctory hand, “dance clubs.”

Jim raised his eyebrows. “Really? Are you sure? I’d’ve thought that’d be the last place you want to be given--” he gestured at him as he tore angrily at the buttons of the shirt in his hand.

Bones stared at Jim, and the distance in his eyes threw Jim for a decided loop. He didn’t really look like he was _there_ , Jim noted; instead he was deep in thought, lost in whatever the day had thrown at him, and still desperately looking for exits.

“Loud?” Bones asked, breathy with imagined effort. “Oppressively hot? Can’t talk or think straight, only option is to conform to doing whatever it is that you young people mistakenly call dancing?”

“Yeah, more or less.”

“Fucking perfect. Let’s go.”

“Okay?” Jim frowned. “Do you want to pause and have a drink first?”

Bones shook his head. “Don’t have tequila.”

“Tequila! Are you serious?”

“That’s the only way this is going to work.” He looked around for his jacket and huffed frustratedly as he was unable to find it, only for Jim to lift it up from the doorknob with a hitched eyebrow.

“All right," he said slowly as Bones scowled at the jacket for its impudence. "Tequila it is.”

“Good," Bones said, snatching the coat out of his hand with pretended levity. "Let’s go.”

Jim paused, staring at Bones with the sort of scrutiny Bones usually reserved for him; but his expression still didn't compute, still didn't make sense, and with a sigh he led the way out of Bones' quarters.

Bones shrugged off Jim's question about whether he had a specific club in mind, and so Jim satisfied himself with choosing his favourite off-campus-but-not-an-hour-away option. "You wanna tell me what happened?" he asked quietly as they walked; and with a gentle jump, Bones looked at him.

"Bad day," he said again, and looked away.

"Yeah, I got that much. Bad study day? Bad doctor day? Did someone comm you? Did someone not comm you? Help me out here."

Bones ran his fingers nervously over his mouth. "I'd rather not?" His voice raised a tone at the end, and Jim realized he was still in total panic mode.

"I think it's important, if we're going to be doing tequila shots, to understand the spirit of those shots," he said with as much levity as he could muster. "Are we drinking for a night to remember or a day to forget? I mean, we'll probably forget the night, too, but--"

"Surgery," Bones grunted, tightening his shoulders. "Patient almost died."

"Ah, shit, Bones." Jim felt intensely uncomfortable on these rare occasions when he had no idea what to say. "But ... they didn't die."

"No," he replied shortly.

Jim examined Bones carefully. "But ... that happens a lot, right? In surgery? Sometimes people tank. It's part of it."

"It shouldn't have happened." Bones was actively clenching his teeth.

"Right, but I'm sure almost killing someone isn't usually part of the surgical plan. Unless you're doing some intense mad-doctoring I'm not aware of. You're not trying to build cyborgs, are you Bones? Because I've heard stories about that and it doesn't sound--"

"I shouldn't have reacted."

Jim blinked. "Reacted. Okay. Reacted to what?"

Bones shuddered. "The date."

"The date."

"Someone said the date, and I ..." he swallowed hard. "The scalpel slipped."

"Someone said the date?" Jim blinked. "The _scalpel slipped_?"

" _Will you stop repeating everything I'm saying._ "

"Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm just ... not following totally here, Bones. Your hand slipped because someone said the date?"

"I didn't realize what day it was."

"2256.066? March 7."

Bones made a noise that fell somewhere between a grunt and a groan. "I don't like March 7," he said shortly.

"Okay." Jim fought to subdue a slight smile. Arbitrarily disliking some calendar days seemed so typically Bones as to be almost comical, but then, it didn't seem terribly arbitrary. "I assume there's a reason for this."

"I've been so busy," he said, running an anxious hand through his hair. "I didn't realize it was today already."

Jim squinted. "Okay. And today is...?"

Bones' body language screamed closed-offendness, his shoulders tight, mouth pressed into a thin line. "I just don't feel I'm ... doing what I should." He clenched his teeth. "Fresh start, though, right?"

"Yeah, Bones," Jim said distantly, giving Bones a lengthy glance. "Fresh start." Jim allowed silence to fall and decided not to push the issue. He recognized the cagey look of directionlessness from the day Bones had boarded his shuttle, and he had no interest in pushing Bones into a worse space than he was already in. "But you fixed it, right?"

"I regen'd the artery," Bones confirmed quietly. "Full recovery is expected."

Jim examined him closely. "Are you under investigation?"

"No," he said, guiltily. "I covered, made it look like a normal mistake. I was halfway to my quarters before ... before the severity of what had just happened settled in." He cleared his throat of whatever thickness had settled there. "It's, um ... The worry is that it'll happen again." He paused, and Jim again felt at a loss for words. "I was going to be an excellent surgeon," he offered quietly.

"You _are_ an excellent surgeon," Jim corrected.

"I'm wondering if I should switch ares of concentration and take an extra year to finish."

Jim's head whipped immediately over so that he faced Bones full-on. "Um, no, you're not doing that."

A muscle quirked in Bones' cheek. "How fortuitous I have my fortuneteller with me or I might have pursued that train of thought as a reasonable course of action."

The facetiousness sounded wrong, somehow, like it didn't belong, but Jim was too busy being annoyed at the suggestion to say anything about it. "It's not whatsoever a reasonable course of action," he insisted.

"I almost killed a woman, Jim."

"Take March 7th off and your problem is completely solved. No one will say the date when you're in surgery again."

Bones remained silent.

"Unless the issue is something else?"

"No," he said quietly. "That's more or less it."

"You don't like the date, the date made you slip. How do you make sure you don't slip? You don't perform surgery on the date. Bada-bing, bada-boom. Problem solved."

Bones shuffled his feet and said nothing for several minutes. "Okay," he said eventually.

"Good, so we're agreed. We're finishing in three years and we're getting on the Enterprise."

Bones snorted in a gesture that would have been laughter if it hadn't been distressed. "Right, I see. Putting lives at risk at the hands of an unreliable surgeon--"

"I will physically fight you if you try to make that argument again, I mean it."

"--is totally worth the realization of your master plan."

"I'm confused about where you see a flaw in this logic."

"Apart from the whole thing being a pipe dream, you mean?"

"We are la creme de la creme, Bones. There's no reason they won't want us on the flagship."

"Apart from us being rookies."

Jim waved a hand. "Minor detail."

"The world's most infuriating human being and a surgeon who can only work 364 days a year."

"Dream team. Perfection personified."

"We'll kill everyone on board."

"We'll die ourselves before we let that happen," Jim said with sudden seriousness, and Bones caught his eye for the first time in an hour.

"Fine," he ceded, stubborn but sounding almost sure. "Three years."

"That's more like it," Jim said with a grin, opening the door to the club with flourish. "After you."

Bones made a beeline for the bar upon entry, and Jim was content to hang back if only for the opportunity to try to read his body language. Something had clearly happened that Bones would prefer to forget; but if he was reacting this severely to such a commonly occurring thing as to cause accidental harm to a patient, Jim wasn't sure whether setting it aside was the best course of action.

Then again, he was hardly one to talk.

"You want the salt?" Bones shouted. The bottle of tequila was already on the counter by the time Jim shouldered his way over to him.

"I'm good if you are," Jim replied, and after waiting for Bones' hasty pour he raised his glass in half-salute to the occasion, about which he knew nothing.

Bones made a noise of great disgust as he slammed the glass back on the table. "You, ah," Bones began as he poured them both another shot. "This is on me, by the way, but then you can go. This is ... good, this'll do. It might get messy though. You don't have to witness this."

"And miss Tequila Bones?" Jim knocked the shot back. "No chance," he wheezed.

Bones was already pouring another. The smirk on his face looked wrong, too, and Jim shook his head against the club's low lighting. "Well, sorry in advance. And do me a favour and don't ask me any difficult questions tonight."

"Why, you gonna deck me for harshing your mellow?"

"Worse," he said, chasing the last shot a slice of lime and giving Jim a pained expression. "I'll answer them."

And with that, he pushed past Jim and onto the dance floor.

Jim blinked after him for a moment, but quickly lost track of him in the crowds. He gave a sigh and collapsed onto the nearest barstool with a vague sensation of -- god fucking damnit, it was still there -- _worry_ , and tried to let Bones do what he needed to do.

He gave him fifteen minutes, then swore and braved the din of the club.

By then the usual magic of Bones' inexplicable footwork had already set in, and Bones had already collected a reasonably substantial posse of devotees. Jim swept up the nearest skilled dancer and moved closer toward him to try and get a grasp on how he was doing, but he was tough as ever to try to figure out. Bones was impossibly good at working out how to move in any context, even in environments he actively hated; he was grinding with an Orion, hands splayed against her with guiding force and gentleness in equal measure, his face buried in her neck. But something was still off, his body was slightly stilted in some way, and Jim guessed the club was not quite having the numbing effect he was looking for.

Jim guided his own partner until they were close enough to brush against them; then, with a maneuver he'd picked up years ago when he was already well-practiced in not giving a fuck, he slid one hand between Bones and his partner until he replaced her, settling easily into the rhythm Bones was operating with and leaving both their partners confused as to what exactly had just happened.

"You all right?" he asked Bones loudly, giving him a second to frown and shrug apologetically behind him at his Orion friend.

"I'm not feeling this," he replied. He sounded strained, and not just because of the volume required of his voice. "We can go--"

But Jim shook his head and bowed Bones' forehead down towards his. "You just had the wrong partner. Focus on me."

Bones seemed to tense further. "Jim--"

But Jim took the lead for once, knowing his way far better around this environment than Bones did, guiding Bones into the familiar motions with greater ease than he was generally capable of. "We got this. Focus on me."

Bones fell into it in degrees, the tension leaving his body modicum by modicum, until finally, miraculously, he was leaning into Jim and managing to move with his usual easy fluidity. By then they were pressed close together, skin radiating heat through their layers, one of Jim's hands latched around Bones' shoulder as Bones guided their hips and worked his fingers through Jim's hair.

"Better?" Jim rasped, the word barely skating over his lips; and Bones' brow creased against his forehead.

"Shut up," Bones whispered harshly back, sliding Jim's hips briefly closer in; and suddenly something caught in the back of Jim's throat. He closed the inch between them, leaned forward and snagged Bones' lips without an ounce of hesitation, without breaking rhythm -- and for a second, Bones didn't either.

But then Bones _did_ move, grabbed Jim harshly and kissed him back -- a closed and abrasive gesture that was altogether Bones but that was still unmistakably a returned kiss; and then Jim was walking him backward off the dancefloor, his fingers touching everywhere on Bones that he could reach while Bones' hands wound themselves in Jim's hair and refused to let go.

In seconds Bones was up against the wall and Jim was nipping at his neck, the smell of sweat combining with the heat of his shoulder to force an unexpected noise out of Jim, his tongue leading his teeth along the line of Bones' jaw and impelling Bones to groan and grip at Jim's shirt. Jim leaned into him, sheer _want_ taking over as he pressed his lips into the groove of Bones' clavicle and sucked hard, with Bones' fingers clenched over his back; but then something shifted in Bones' stance.

“No,” Bones said suddenly. Jim only barely felt the vibration in his chest before Bones’ hands were at his waist and against his ribs, suddenly chaste, pushing him backward and generating distance.

Jim stared at Bones, shocked to see a look of devastation on his face. Bones withdrew, stepping back against the wall once again, chest heaving even as he crossed his arms against it.

“Not now,” Bones said -- or Jim thought he said. He was only barely able to make out the movements of Bones' lips amidst the din of the music. “Not today.”

“Bones?”

Jim tried to read his expression as Bones slowly shook his head, emotion darkening his features; and then just as suddenly as it had all stopped, it was starting again. Bones' fingers suddenly fixed back in Jim’s hair as Bones stepped forward and enveloped Jim back into him; but this was a kiss of a totally different quality, one that saw Bones standing over Jim and setting himself onto Jim’s mouth with full, slow lips. Bones was devouring him, trying to taste as much as Jim as possible while his thumbs traced the outline of Jim’s ears, and Jim wrung his hands in Bones’ shirt, trying to ground him in the midst of completely compromising desire as Bones’ tongue delved to sweep across his own.

Bones broke away entirely too soon, leaving Jim’s mouth feeling utterly fucked and wanting. Bones’ fingers alternately tugged and smoothed themselves in Jim’s hair as he pressed their foreheads together, breath hot and staggered over the skin of Jim's lips. “This is anything but casual for me, kid,” Bones growled, barely audible over the music, the words ghosting across Jim's mouth. “Don’t fuck me around.”

And instantly, horribly, the heat of Bones’ hands was gone from Jim’s face, the fabric of his shirt disappearing from between his fingers. Jim blinked back to reality and spun around just in time to see the back of Bones, pushing his way toward the exit with determination, unwilling to turn to give Jim a retreating glance as he sought his escape.

Jim stared after, heat furling obnoxiously in his gut as he tried to will his feet to move or at least for his erection to excuse itself, and though distantly that it was possible -- maybe even  _likely?_ \-- that he might have made a slight miscalculation somewhere.

\---

Bones didn’t open the door when Jim had stopped by the next day with his jacket.

Jim briefly considered bursting in anyway with his usual flourishing entrance; but every time he went to take a step forward, he found his limbs immobile, unable to put any heart into the motions required to punch his way rudely into Bones’ life as he usually did. After a solid ten minutes of staring at Bones’ door wondering what to do with himself, he found his only successful motion was the one in which he left the jacket hanging on the doorknob.

“Jacket’s here, Bones. Let me know if you want to go out later, or, talk, or whatever,” he said to the door. Then he stared at it again, willing Bones to open up, for him stare Jim down and yell at him or something (preferably half-naked and with sleep-mussed hair, but Jim would take what he could get). There remained, however, no indication of stirring on the other side; and after a solid thirty seconds of silence, Jim estimated Bones was either not at home or really determined not to see Jim just then.

He turned and walked to the end of the hallway, then paused on a whim; and it was then that Bones’ door opened, the jacket disappearing inside with a flourish, before slamming once again immediately shut.

Jim wound up staring at Bones’ door a few more times over the coming days.

He really did intend to knock or barge in or yell apologetically through the door or do _something_ , damn it, anything to try to mitigate this fuck-up; but he remained frozen in place by his inability to think of any plausible apology. Jim seemed to have done legitimate damage to their friendship just by being his own goddamned persistent self and failing to pick up on the indications that he was crossing some kind of a line -- which Bones may or may not have explicitly demarcated using clear and specific language some weeks earlier -- and that seemed impossible to make up for.

“Hi, Bones, sorry I’m the worst,” he muttered to himself as he walked back to his own dorm, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. “Sorry that I took your fucked up day and put it through an atomic scrambler. I’m sorry for fucking you around like an asshole."

 _I’m sorry that I’m not totally sure if I’m really fucking you around,_ his mind finished for him.

After that, Jim tried the opposite approach -- going out of his way to _avoid_ Bones -- which only worked insofar as they were able to avoid occupying the same space. Unfortunately, given that they both went to the same academy and frequented the same bars, this strategy was inherently flawed. Jim found himself ducking out of bars several times in the course of an evening out of commitment to the strategy anyway, spinning around on his heel every time a shock of dark hair or the cut of what might’ve been Bones’ jacket caught his eye; and yeah, maybe he was being a little bit ridiculous, but--

No, actually, it was _totally_  ridiculous he realized one Friday after he’d hit four bars in two hours. There was no way all of these people could’ve been Bones. Why would Bones go to four bars in the course of two hours? That would be _totally ridiculous_. A thing that _ridiculous people did_.

 _You are ridiculous,_ Bones' voice reminded him in his head.

Jim swatted at the empty air and shouldered his way out of the (fourth, ridiculous) bar. He felt he could use a quiet night anyway.

It was probably telling of _something_ that Jim was seeing Bones everywhere he wasn’t, but he had no time for that. Puh-lease. There were things to do, papers to write, people to sex. He was a busy man. Bones was hardly even missed.

Of course, he’d almost slid right off his stool and into his new friend’s lap two weeks later when it actually _was_ Bones in the bar.

It had been his laugh that had caught Jim’s attention, which was embarrassing enough in itself given how rarely he tended to hear it. Jim’s sentence had trailed off and he glanced between the throngs of people to catch flashes of Bones sitting at a table with several people Jim didn’t recognize, laughing openly and cradling a beer casually in one hand. Jim recognized the signs of Bones-charm, the ones that meant that a switch had flipped and Bones was the far more sociable version of himself, not nearly as real but still appallingly genuine -- which in turn meant that he was doomed to smiling and affability for the rest of the evening. 

Which meant that Jim was doomed to watch it. the whole. damn. night.

Unless he left.

“What do you say we get out of here?” Jim graveled, attempting lustrous fluidity as he tugged the drink out of the Tzenkethi’s hand and set it on the bar.

“I’m enjoying my drink,” he replied, grabbing it back with a prim smile. Jim’s eyes darted away involuntarily as the crowd between himself and Bones parted. “Why don’t you order another?”

“Aw, come on, we can drink back at mine.” And then Jim’s gaze was fixed on Bones, despite that every one of his cells was screaming at him to look away. Bones’ fingers were peeling at the label on his beer bottle, and Jim saw his foot tapping under the table -- the only indicator that he was impatient to finish putting in the social time required of him by whatever absurd standard he’d imposed on himself, tracking the seconds until he could return to his quarters in peace; but then Bones was laughing again, making the tendons in Jim’s neck stand out, and okay, fuck, maybe he missed the asshole a little.

It was a matter of seconds before Bones’ eyes swept across the bar for something more interesting to look at, even before he’d wound down his put-on laugh -- and settled, to Jim’s horror, on him. The projected joy dropped out of Bones' features with the recognition, forcing him to turn back into the real Bones in an instant; and Jim turned abruptly away, gut wrenching.

The Tzenkethi had said something. What was it? He wasn’t moving from his stool. What was his name again?

Jim leaned against the bar and crinkled his nose in what he was sure was an extremely arrogant gesture. “I have to go,” Jim allayed with smarm; and after scrambling for the required credits, he acquiesced to his instinct to flee.

As he spun toward the door, he felt a faint pang of regret. Or maybe desire? He thought he’d probably been keen to discover whether that phosphorescence ran all the way down.

Or something.

The fresh air helped.

“Jim!”

...No, it didn’t.

Jim’s foot slowed involuntarily mid-stride, compelled to turn toward Bones’ voice; but with what felt to be a significant expenditure of effort, he completed the step, and then managed to put the other foot forward too, stepping again and again away from the voice automatically.

“Damnit, man, if you make me chase you down I swear to god I will--”

The sentence broke off as Jim’s feet quit moving of their own accord; paused; began to turn.

Bones was halfway between Jim and the bar, his body angled just such a way to suggest he’d been on his way to chase Jim down anyway, with one shoulder forward, arms oddly positioned by his sides. Jim stared, watched Bones’ breath furl into the air, carefully read the candor written all over his face, and in contrast he felt closed-off and uncertain with his hands shoved in pockets, shoulders tense and knotted in his back.

His feet which had minds of their own took a step backward.

Bones noticed. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, stepping forward in kind.

Jim stopped, then. “Uh. What?”

Bones repositioned, tightened, shoved his own hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I left you.”

The dead weight in Jim’s chest fluttered to life, and he felt an incredulous smile spread across his face. “ _What?_ ”

“I left you. At the club.”

“Uhh, you--”

“After kissing you like a jackass.”

“Bones!!” The laughter coughed out of him, and his feet which had minds of their own started briskly forward. He stopped half a yard away as Bones' expression morphed into one of confusion at Jim’s reaction; and Jim pressed a hard hand to his own chest. “ _I’m_ the jackass,” he said in a low voice.

Bones blinked.

“I kissed _you! I_ kissed you. After you told me you didn’t want me to. I fucked up your already fucked-up day. No wonder you walked away! Bones.” His hand reached out to grasp at Bones’ shirt, but then faltered and fell away. He gestured wildly to the side, instead. “I’m the jackass, and I’m fucking sorry. I don’t...” But that was it, that was all the words Jim had, and he made a juggling motion with his hands before letting them slap against his thighs.

Bones nodded tightly, teeth clenching almost imperceptibly as he watched Jim’s gesticulations. “You’re right,” he said easily; and then the smile tugged at his cheeks. “You are the jackass.”

Jim felt his jaw push its way forward in spite of the feeling of lightness flooding his lungs. “You set me up for that.”

“Stopped you running, didn't it?”

Jim pouted only briefly. “Okay. Tied for jackassery.” He held out his hand, and Bones stepped forward and shook it. The two of them held on a second too long and both suppressed smiles without much success, lingering fingers glancing off each other’s palms.

“Are we good?” Jim asked seriously after they’d mutually shoved their hands back in their own pockets.

Bones gave a slight nod, possibly involuntarily, before painting on a serious expression. “Don’t fuck me around,” he growled, half-threat, half-mockery.

Jim gave a breath of laughter. “I’m--” he began automatically before shutting the phrase down. ‘I’m’ _what_? ‘I’m not’? Fuck. “I don’t intend to,” he said instead, and Bones nodded again, more concertedly.

“Want to join us for a drink? I’m here with clinic folks so it’s probably not your bag, but...” He nodded his head behind him in the direction of the bar. “You could try again with your luminescent friend if you’d rather.”

“Ah, no, I bailed kind of harshly. Better head home.” Jim’s feet which had minds of their own began stepping backward again, only they dragged significantly less this time. “You go. Or leave, actually, if you want. You looked pretty miserable.”

Bones shrugged and started walking backward of his own accord toward the bar. “Beats staying at home all weekend,” he said with a quirk of the lips; and after a final lingering glance, they turned away at the same time.

“I missed you too, Bones,” Jim murmured; and he could almost hear Bones’ smile.

\-----  
\-----

Leo was aware his hair must look completely ridiculous with the number of times he'd run his hands through it, but -- to use one of Jim's favourite exasperated expressions -- he'd Starfleet-officially run out of fucks to give. He had an exam worth an obscene amount on Tuesday that he'd completely neglected to study for in favour of the completion of a paper due Monday, and even now he felt hopelessly panicked about a second paper due Thursday that he was quite certain he wouldn't get to until Wednesday, between everything the semester and the goddamn clinic were throwing at him.

He also Starfleet-officially hated the entire fucking month of March. Which was not helping matters.

Uhura had swung by his cubicle at the library some hours ago, taken one wordless wide-eyed look at him, and returned five minutes later with the largest cup of coffee he'd ever seen. "You have to ask for the Admiral size," she'd whispered with a squeeze of his shoulder; and he'd blinked blearily after her.

"That bad, huh?" he'd hissed after her into the silence of the library.

"Not good," she'd said with a grim smile. "Consider taking a break in the near future, okay Cadet?"

"Yes, Admiral," he'd said with a gruff salute, to many fervent shushes from the Sunday crew of merry crammers.

That coffee was long gone now, and Leo's concentration remained completely shot. He was still reviewing chapter 2 of 38 on his textbook on xenovirology, and it was a good six hours since he'd sat down at his cubicle.

His comm was clenched in his left hand and had been for the last 90 minutes. He was seriously considering taking that break.

He gave it another 20 minutes before giving in.

 **Leo McCoy to Jim Kirk**  
 _2256.089 | 14.31:47h_  
You free? Want to do me a favour and meet me in the bar in a couple hours?

Jim's reply was, blessedly, reasonably prompt.

 **Jim Kirk to Leo McCoy**  
 _2256.089 | 14.35:49h_  
you got it. what’s up?

 **Leo McCoy to Jim Kirk**  
 _2256.089 | 14.39:23h_  
Remember how I don’t like March 7? Likewise don’t like March 30. Driving myself fucking insane, can’t get any work done. Prefer to recklessly test the boundaries of my alcohol tolerance in like company.

 **Jim Kirk to Leo McCoy**  
 _2256.089 | 14.41:26h_  
kkrrrrch. fuck all of march, copy. kkrrrrch. any special requests? vodka? vermouth? more tequila?

 **Leo McCoy to Jim Kirk**  
 _2256.089 | 14.41:58h_  
NO TEQUILA

 **Leo McCoy to Jim Kirk**  
 _2256.089 | 14.44:52h_  
Otherwise I don’t really know. No whiskey. Something that will get me very drunk, very fast.

 **Jim Kirk to Leo McCoy**  
 _2256.089 | 14.46:49h_  
=D fine no tequila. saurian brandy?

 **Leo McCoy to Jim Kirk**  
 _2256.089 | 14.48:56h_  
Fucking yes. Genius idea. All the Saurian brandy we can find.

 **Leo McCoy to Jim Kirk**  
 _2256.089 | 14.53:15h_  
FYI I just had to look up shortwave radios to confirm that you actually just spelled out the sounds those antediluvian contraptions used to make and am currently furious about it

 **Jim Kirk to Leo McCoy**  
 _2256.089 | 14.55:35h_  
yeah yeah I’m retro as shit, blah blah, dark ages, whatever, you love me. I’ll see what I can do

 **Jim Kirk to Leo McCoy**  
 _2256.089 | 14.59:17h_  
you wanna tell me what today’s about or are we gonna dance around this one too?

At that, Leo gave himself another ten minutes to stare pointlessly at his textbook while formulating the best way to answer this question.

 **Leo McCoy to Jim Kirk**  
 _2256.089 | 15.12:33h_  
Two years since my Pa died. Probably nothing I should still be all messed up over.

 **Jim Kirk to Leo McCoy**  
 _2256.089 | 15.15:27h_  
Fuck should, Bones. I’m sorry. I gather you were close?

Leo knew from the sudden appearance of capital letters that Jim had replied with great intentionality. With a shuddering breath, he drafted his reply, though he let several pensive minutes pass while he ran his thumb over the button to send the message before before pressing more concertedly down upon it at last:

 **Leo McCoy to Jim Kirk**  
 _2256.089 | 15.27:56h_  
Yeah. Yeah. You could say that.

With that, he threw the comm gently to the side and forced himself to intake another chapter and a half before grabbing his jacket and abandoning his books firmly in the cubicle. No one ever used that one, anyway; too many people had been scowled at by an undercaffeinated McCoy to go anywhere near it anymore.

Jim had already holed up in the corner booth, nursing a beer alongside the tall, unopened, long-necked bottle of brandy; and he smiled as Leo sat down.

“So," Jim prodded gently as he collapsed into the booth. "Tell me about him."

A faint smile quirked at Leo's lips as he looked across the table with what he knew must have been just a degree too much fondness. “He was just a good man," he said with equal gentility, snatching the brandy by the bottle's neck. "Every bit of him, a good man. Warm and generous, your Georgian doctor trope through and through, the one you try to ascribe to me all the time. Hell of a healer, damn good family man.”

"So ... You, then." Jim grinned obnoxiously.

Leo furrowed his brow with annoyance and poured himself a generous tumbler, gesturing at Jim to pass his glass over. “No," he said. "Ma used to say I was just like him, but I don’t think that’s true anymore. I corrupted at some point. I think I probably we were probably much more alike when I was young.”

Jim gave him a look filled with annoying sympathy. “You’re young, Bones.”

“Am I?” He shot Jim a look of mock confusion. "I think you have me confused with someone else."

Jim nudged at his leg under the table as he took the brandy from the other side of the table. “I think you’re still probably more like him than you think.”

Leo nodded slowly. “Might be. Hard to remember. The disease hit him hard and then started to take him over. It was a pretty steady decline. Ate at him in bits and pieces." He felt the levity fall from his features. "Hard to watch. Hard to forget.”

Jim seemed to watch Leo carefully, gaze following his hands as they drifted with great precision around the table, fussing casually with drink and condiments. “What’d he have?” Jim asked quietly, as though half-expecting Leo to ignore the question completely.

“Pyrrhoneuritis,” he answered, almost too immediately, annoyed with himself for how comparatively easy this discussion was. After fighting with Jocelyn about it for so long, he'd clammed up completely on the subject; and now the words were tugging at his lips, the story longing to be told quite independently of his own wishes, and he collapsed his shoulders in resignation. “Autoimmune. Spent the better part of three years trying to find a cure, in spite of the fact that he’d told me to stop after the first.” Leo took a drink. “That was the first major point of divergence between me and Pa. We had the same temperament when it came to most things; he loved his food and drink, loved the quiet of his study, loved Ma to bits until the day he died. But when it came to life and death, we disagreed. Fervently.” Leo shook his head as he felt his anxiety levels rise. "Ugh, no. This is getting too real too quickly. Not drunk enough for this."

But Leo could tell by the look on Jim's face that he was one step ahead. "You honoured his request to stop finding a cure?"

He grimaced and took a moment to roll brandy around in his mouth. “I eventually quit," he finally admitted. "Handed the research to an RA, repurposed my PhD research until Pyrrhoneuritis was right out of it. Never wanted to see or hear the word again.” He pinched anxiously at his own arm. “That RA figured it out three months later. Lousy with fame now.”

“What? Shit! Did he give you any credit?”

“Nnnope.”

“Bones!”

“I’d quit,” Leo said simply, catching Jim’s eye, gaze cast low. “I gave it up. I’d … given up.”

“Wait. What?" Jim's foot brushed at his under the table. "Hang on, I don’t think--”

“He’d asked me to take him off life support,” Leo said. It was loud and quick and all in the first part of a much larger breath, and he forced himself to stare at the center of the table as the rest of the breath snaked after it, as though it was hovering there between them. He noticed, weakly, that Jim started breathing again only once Leo did. “And I refused,” he continued, more quietly, still staring at the table. “For about two weeks, I refused. Because I didn’t understand. But then I stared at the fucking research and couldn’t make progress, because -- because he’d accepted defeat. The fucking thing had beaten him, as far as he was concerned. So then I realized, far be it from me to judge when he’s ready...” Leo waved a vague hand.

“Oh my god, Bones.” Jim wrapped his legs around the back of Leo's calf, the honesty of his gaze inescapable as he leaned across the table.

Leo took a deep breath and brought his hands together to stop them quavering, wrapping one around the other’s fist, resting them over his mouth. He looked sideways at the wall to avoid Jim's eye and forced himself to take a steadying breath. “The thing about McCoys,” he muttered through a tight throat, “is that they’re resilient motherfuckers, even after they make a decision. So I took him off it, and his heart kept on beating, and he was still in fucking agony, and something needed to be done about that.”

Jim folded his hands over his mouth in Leo's periphery and said nothing -- surely, a Jim Kirk first. Leo forced his mouth into a thin line and drank heavily from the bottle of brandy. “Never told anyone but Jocelyn,” he rumbled out eventually.

“Bones.”

“I’m sorry, you don’t need this.”

“No. Don’t. No.” He squeezed at Leo’s leg between his ankles and took a deep breath, leaning on his forearms across the table. “We do what we have to,” Jim said quietly, looking up at him. Leo caught his gaze and saw how important it seemed to Jim that Leo understood his meaning. “We do what we have to,” he repeated, firm.

Leo looked at Jim and held his gaze for several long seconds. Then, slowly, he nodded. “To David McCoy,” he gruffed.

Jim picked up his brandy and clinked it against Leo's glass. “To David McCoy.”

They drank, and Leo’s calf flexed against Jim’s feet in appreciation as they sat in several moments in silence. He was still too sober and still having too many feelings, and yeah, fuck, why couldn't he just leave the past behind like normal people? “What do you need, Bones?” Jim asked after another minute ticked by.

Leo forced a light smirk onto his face. "Don't suppose San Francisco has an Oblivion, does it?"

Jim blinked with seeming surprise, then set his jaw as he realized what Leo was referring to. "Are you seriously fucking talking to me about that famous bar in Virginia right now?" His voice sounded strained, but Leo grasped onto the attemted levity with every fibre of his being.

He shrugged, too casually. "It's what I did last year."

Jim shook his head incredulously, then gave a burst of laughter that sounded half-annoyed and half awe-stricken. “I hate you and your entire life. No one fucking knows the first thing about Oblivion. It's a _secret club,_ Bones. How the hell do you find these places?”

“I network,” Leo replied delicately, then felt a grin creep over his face as Jim rolled his eyes across the table. "Don't hate me 'cause I'm beautiful, darlin'."

Jim opened his mouth, then seemed to change his mind. "Will you take me?" he said after a tight-lipped moment.

Leo shook his head. "One time only sort of deal, I'm afraid. I'll tell you how to get there, though, if you're ever in Virginia. They might not let you in, but you can _try, anyway_ \--"

"You're the worst. You are the whole entire worst." Leo smiled around the edge of his glass as he drank, and Jim snorted and poured himself another brandy. "To answer your question, I don't fucking know if there's an Oblivion in San Fran, you goddamned asshole, but it's still San Fran so we do have the next best thing, whatever the hell that might be. What do you want, Xenomph? Iliad? Rearden? What's your speed tonight?"

Leo raised his eyebrows judgmentally. "Your encyclopedic knowledge of local fetish bars is outstanding. I don't know why I'm surprised."

"Me neither, Mister Oblivion. I'm never forgiving you for going without me."

"I didn't know you then! A happier time," he added sternly; but then a frown forced itself upon him because of the demonstrable falsity of the statement, and Jim's returning grin was radiant.

"You _like me_ ," he crooned, kicking his feet childishly under the table.

Leo scowled. "Get up," was all he said in return.

"Where we going?"

"Bring the brandy."

"I don't think Rockacocka's gonna like it if we walk in with our own booze--"

Leo gave a burst of laughter. "We're not going to Rockacocka."

"Where then?" Jim asked, jabbing Leo in the back with his index finger as he led the way out of the bar.

"Park."

"Park! I've never heard of Park, what's that?"

"Real nice. Green grass, trees, benches, swings sometimes, where municipalities allow."

"Oh. You mean an actual park."

"I think you'll like it. Lots of squirrels to bark at."

Jim looked annoyed. "That was _one time_ and it stole my fucking spanikopita."

Leo shot Jim a half smile and snatched the brandy out from his hand.

"Park's a far cry from Oblivion, Bones."

"And I'm no closer to over it than I was last year. About time I started facing my own shit." Leo gave Jim a sidelong glance, adrenaline suddenly pumping its way into his bloodstream as he took a swig from the bottle. "You ready for this shit?"

He was trying to tell Jim that he could walk away now, to go to Rockacocka or back to the bar or get himself laid or whatever he wanted and it would be okay. Leo wasn't really ready for this, but on the other hand he figured he probably never would be totally ready, and half the story was already told. Jim had enough skeletons of his own that Leo knew he'd understand the significance behind talking about his family to the extent that he was about to; but that didn't make this easy, not for either one of them, and Leo wanted to give Jim the exit while there was still the chance.

Jim gave him a careful once-over, then stooped slightly to grab the brandy back. "You know I'm ready for anything, Bones," he said firmly, without breaking eye contact.

Leo held his gaze -- and then he nodded, took a deep breath, and started talking.

\-----  
\-----

Jim paused momentarily in front of Bones’ door, tugging at his jacket with a sense that greatness was about to befall him, and then burst into his quarters with a grace and flourish that impressed even himself.

“Bones!” he declared as though surprised to see him in his own quarters. “Suit up. We’re hitting the club scene properly tonight, no more of this ‘not clearly automatically the best-looking humans in the room’ nonsense.”

Bones stared at him, paused midway through buttoning his shirt, looking blearily as though he’d just woken from a nap. “Uhh,” Bones replied blankly.

Jim stepped forward and offered an encouraging smile. “You in there, Bones? Still waking up? Can I get you a caffeine hypo?”

Bones shut his eyes and shook his head, then finally peered at Jim with a cocked eyebrow. “A suit? Are you serious?”

Jim idly brushed imaginary dust off his sleeve in reply.

Bones seemed at a loss for where to start. “I don’t even know if I own a full suit,” he complained eventually.

“I thought of that. I brought you a tie.” He pulled a crumpled necktie out of his trouser pocket. “I know you have the rest, I’ve borrowed your clothes enough times to know what’s in your wardrobe.”

“Yeah, about that. Do your goddamn laundry and stop stealing my shit.”

Right. Bad mood Bones. He could deal with that. “I always give it back!" He grinned his charmingest Jim Kirk grin. "Clean, even.”

“I’m missing my best socks.” He looked indignantly down at the shirt he was putting on and decided it was good enough to keep buttoning, apparently resigning himself to the reality that he was probably not going to be allowed to leave his quarters ever again unless he acquiesced to Jim’s demands.

 _Good man,_ Jim thought pleasantly. “Oh. Yeah, I guess I don’t give those back. You have ‘best socks’?”

“Well apparently I need them for when it’s time to ‘suit up’.” He snatched the tie aggressively from Jim’s outstretched hand, seeming to come back to himself, and strode to the mirror to loop it around his neck. “Archaic things, neckties,” he muttered, more to himself than to Jim. “Nooses, really. Harkens back to the days when bureaucracy was such a vast enterprise that they needed to remind the masses of their subordinate status in society, as cogs in the machine, lest they rise up and overthrow the capitalistic empire of their enslavement.”

Jim leaned against the wall, laughing nasally as he slipped his hands into the pockets of his slacks, propping one foot arrogantly over the other. “Okay, Bones,” he placated delightedly. The doctor’s steady hands worked automatically through the tying motions, and Jim watched with careful interest. “I see you know how to tie one despite their torturous bureaucratic symbolism.”

“Yeah, well,” he desponded. “Like everything else in Georgia, funerals still have their reverence for both old-world nostalgia and an excessive sense of propriety.”

Jim frowned and tried to grasp onto something topical to say. He’d known there wasn’t much left for Bones in Georgia, but he hadn’t thought much about the circumstances associated with that. He opened his mouth, but feeling at a loss, propelled himself away from the wall and toward the wardrobe instead. He kept alomost-grasping on serious words expressing how sorry he was, Bones, for all that shit; but at last he ultimately shrugged. The moment instead seemed to call for contrasting levity.

So he lifted Bones’ slacks delicately off the hanger, hitched them higher into his hand, and threw them across the room. “Will you put your pants on already? Let’s goooo. I wanna dance.”

Bones scowled, but caught the pants easily; he threw them on the bed beside him, returning to his tie. Jim hung the suit jacket at a perpendicular angle on the wardrobe’s handle and moved behind Bones, peering at himself at the full-length mirror through Bones’ bent arm. He strutted cockily in place as he hummed to himself, and Bones frowned.

“Jim,” Bones began, stepping deftly out of Jim’s line of sight and sounding like he didn’t really want to begin at all, “is this a song about how happy you are to be wearing a suit?”

Jim grinned widely. “Bones! You know this song?”

“It’s a real song? I just thought you were being,” he waved a hand, “whatever you’re being.”

“I think the words you are looking for are--”

“Egotistical prick?”

“--handsome fucking devil.” Jim tugged at his collar.

Bones’ expression was replete with doubt. “I think I’ll stick with mine.”

“Suit yourself, Bones. HA,” he shouted at Bones. “ _Suit_ yourself. Get it?” Jim easily ducked the pillow Bones threw at his head and straightened to look at himself in the mirror again as though nothing had interrupted him. “But seriously, what the hell is taking you so long? I want to go be the best-looking fuck at the club already.”

Bones raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to say something, but then seemed to think better of it and just shook his head as Jim continued to make gestures at himself in the mirror. “As long as I’ve got my suit and tie,” Jim sang quietly to himself, “I’ma leave it all on the floor tonight--”

“You made this song up,” Bones accused, pulling his trousers ungracefully off by the cuff of the leg.

“I did no such thing, fair Leonard,” Jim crooned, turning to regard Bones with a smile of dazzling sophistication. But Bones wasn’t paying attention, at the moment more concerned with his endeavors to manipulate his slacks around a half-erection -- with which Jim also suddenly felt himself very concerned. “Some genius actually wrote a song a couple centuries ago,” he continued, prying his gaze away with some effort, “accurately predicting my birth and subsequent rocking of the old-style garb.”

“I can’t understand your interest in that shit music of yesteryear,” Bones griped.

“It’s catchy! Besides, you’re coming around.”

“I am _not_.”

“This from the man who knows _all_ the lyrics to ‘Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy’.”

Bones froze, mid-zip. “What?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.” Jim took advantage of Bones’ mortified immobility and deftly danced around around the room, successfully throwing his suit jacket over his shoulders and spinning away.

Bones’ expression was murderous as Jim moonwalked backwards. “I  _don’t_ know what you’re talking about,” he articulated slowly.

Jim waggled his eyebrows and moved hippily in Bones’ direction. “ _Ridin’ up and down Broadway on my old stud Leroy and the girls say:_ ” He pointed both index fingers at Bones with an absurd grin.

Bones stuck out his jaw, apparently totally torn between overwhelming embarrassment and fury. “ _Jim!_ ” he shouted.

“Well, that is often what the girls say, usually considerably later in the evening, but no, you were supposed to finish the phrase. Here, I’ll do it. _Save a horse, ride a cowbo--_ ”

“You are unbe _fucking_ lievable!”

“Relax, Bones, it was kinda the best thing I’ve ever accidentally witnessed you doing,” he grinned. “Which is a long list, by the way.”

“Why were you in my quarters while I was in the shower!”

“I needed a clean shirt and you weren’t opening the door.”

“ _Because! I was in! the fucking! shower!_ ”

Jim could only laugh. Bones’ right eye, meanwhile, threatened to explode.

“Gaaaahh!” Bones yelled before turning away and taking a moment to lean his hands against the wall. Then he turned back to Jim, face red but frustration apparently under control. “You tell no one. This stays between us.” He angrily shoved his arms into his jacket, which had spent the last minute flapping around with him as he'd gesticulated through his rage.

“Your secret adoration of old-world country music? Or the fact of your _very_ dulcet tones?” Jim gave an innocent smile. “Lips are sealed, Bones.”

Bones only growled low in his throat and pushed past Jim into the bathroom. “I cannot _believe_ you. One of these days you are going to have to learn to respect other people’s privacy.” He flattened his hair angrily with his hand and then, venting frustration, mussed it up again. “And stop taking my clothes. Do your fucking laundry.”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep your hair messy.”

“What? Why?” Bones made it sound like the most ridiculous request anyone had ever made of him.

“Just do it. Wax it or something. We’re going for twenty-first century chic here.”

“Again, I ask the question: _Why?_ ”

“Because, those are the rules. I’ll do it for you if you want.”

Bones grumbled his dissention and, as Jim knew he would, pulled the appropriate hair product out of a small drawer at the bathroom sink. Jim grinned and continued to hum to himself as he adjusted his own hair in the other mirror, trying not to feel self-satisfied at the relative success of this endeavor so far.

“Although, much as I’m never going to bring up your silky-smooth baritone again, I do think we should take a trip out to Georgia this summer. I think I’ve heard things about short shorts and vines of honeysuckle from that other song you sing in the shower? Something about Georgia peaches?”

Bones placed bracing fists on either side of the bathroom sink and took a deep breath. “I’ll suckle your honey,” Bones muttered aggressively; then, apparently realizing his mistake, immediately frowned painfully at himself in the mirror.

Jim gave a high giggle, somewhat involuntarily. “Was that supposed to be a threat, Bones? Because it mostly sounds hot.”

Bones grunted something that sounded vaguely like ‘Both’ and sighed himself back to a low simmer as he tugged, not unskillfully, at his hair. “So what’s with the suits, James?”

“What’s _not_ with the suits? Suits are hot. _We_ are hot. Let’s go be hot, and young, and, like, fucking, sexy, or whatever.”

“You might. I actually look like I’m going to a funeral. Electrocuted.” He smoothed down his still-crumpled tie and reached for the shaving cream. “You sure you want me to do this?”

“Don’t you dare shave,” Jim demanded, bounding toward him. “Stubble is good.” He took the canister out of Bones’ hand, set it heavily down, and stood beside Bones to stare at his reflection. “Not half bad with the hair, Bones, you should wear it like that more often. Your shirt’s good too,” he continued, ignoring Bones’ expression of displeasure at the suggestion, “but try to look relaxed. I know it’s a burden for you, but you’ll manage. Here.” Jim put a heavy hand on Bones’ shoulder and physically turned him to face Jim. “The full-Windsor is the worst. Go for something more casual.”

Bones raised his chin and rolled his eyes to the wall while Jim tugged at the knot at his throat. “That’s the extent of my tie-tying knowledge,” Bones resigned.

Jim nodded and squinted in focus, unusued to tying ties on people other than himself. “Ties are great in that they’re versatile. They don’t always have to be representative of the noose of capitalist bureaucracy or ... portentous of the funeral bell.”

Bones looked vaguely impressed with Jim’s word choice but opted only to make a dubious noise in the back of his throat. “If you say so.”

Jim’s eyes flitted up to follow the movement of Bones’ adam’s apple before tracing the line of his jaw. He fumbled his hands and tutted, tugging at his progress and starting over. “Stop being distracting,” he murmured.

“I’m … standing here.”

Jim nodded. “And it’s distracting.”

Bones cocked an eyebrow. “Deal with it.”

“Did you seriously just tell me to deal with it?” Jim was thrilled. “Actually, though, just try to stop complaining for two fucking minutes, if you can manage it.”

Jim worked without hurry, enjoying the proximity. Bones stood as stalk steady as he ever was, apart from the occasional clench of his jaw as Jim’s hip occasionally (purposefully) brushed against him.

“Do you have _any_ family left, Bones?” Jim eventually asked softly, still feeling faintly sad that Bones’ only known tie knot was meant for funerals.

Bones stiffened, but only slightly. “Not much,” he admitted eventually.

Jim nodded soberly and delivered the final adjustment to the knot, looking Bones square in the face as he tugged his collar back down. The knuckles of his thumbs brushed against Bones’ neck. “What happened?”

He’d meant it as an invitation but not a requirement to answer, and Bones seemed to know it. He studied Jim’s face for a moment before shaking his head gently offering a faint, bittersweet smile. “Let’s not ruin the mood of the evening, Jim.”

Jim blinked and nodded acceptance. “Okay,” he said easily. Then he stepped back and surveyed the masterpiece that was Leonard McCoy, a fond grin spreading over his features. “There! You’re a picture, Bones. Look at you.”

“I’m always a picture,” Bones protested, but cocked an eyebrow at himself in the mirror, smirking charmingly as he looked reasonably impressed at the slightly looser fit of the tie around his neck.

“That’s the spirit!” Jim grinned and bounded toward the door. “I can’t _wait_ ‘til I get you on the floor good lookin’,” he sang in falsetto, turning to dance backward as Bones ruefully followed. “Going hot, so hot, just like an oven... Owww!”

“Unbelievable,” Bones sighed after him.

\---

Jim, being the handsome, observant fuck that he was, had noted the following:

1\. Bones was hot as shit in a suit.  
2\. Bones clearly thought Jim was hot as shit in a suit.  
3\. Bones being hot in a suit while thinking Jim was hot in a suit was hot as shit. In suits.

Therefore, he concluded:

4\. For the act of dressing himself and Bones in a suit and proceeding to take them to a club with broken air conditioning that was playing music loud enough that he could feel the bass resonating in his balls: he, James T. Kirk, was a genius.

Bones had dropped his usual ornery fervor for something else entirely, his eyes casting themselves over Jim with a stark level of interest that Jim was unused to before they got into the club. He’d kept adjusting Jim’s tie while they waited for the shuttle, followed immediately by tugging nervously at his own; and it wasn’t until Jim had slipped a flask of whiskey into Bones’ hand once on the shuttle that his anxiety levels seemed to drop into a gentle thrum of accepted attraction.

Something about the magic of the suits when combined with the shuttle-whiskey had made Bones not only very look-see but also very touchy-feely once they got into the club proper, his usual hesitance to touch Jim in any form other than ‘aggressively’ apparently evaporated. Jim had felt a hand against his back as they’d gone to purchase drinks; a gentle arm across his torso when Bones had decided it was time to start dancing and had swept Jim away from the bar; and commanding grasps at his hips while on the floor that seemed slightly more engaged than usual, as though mapping the landscape of Jim’s abdomen.

Two more drinks and their suit jackets were thrown over some wayward chair, sleeves rolled up in amidst the humidity and close quarters; and Bones was wrapping one hand around Jim’s artfully loosened tie, tugging him gently closer and closer until only an inch separated them. Their shirts clung to them tighter than a dress shirt was ever intended to due to the unfathomable heat of the venue, and Jim was no longer sure if it was the oppressive conditions or the severity of his attraction that was keeping his breath tight in his lungs.

“This is a terrible club,” Bones rumbled at him; but the usual edge to his voice was missing.

“Yeah, you look like you’re having a shit time,” Jim replied.

Bones furrowed his brow, his usual scowl likewise lacking that grace-note of smouldering misery. “Company’s decent.”

“So glad you think so. You’ve been avoiding me a lot lately.”

Which was true; even in the two weeks since they’d stopped pointedly avoiding each other, they’d still managed to skitter by one another. Or, more accurately, Jim had done exactly everything he had usually done --- but instead of slamming his meals aggressively across from him at the same times every day as usual, Bones had experienced an inexplicable scheduling change resulting in his consistent absence. Apart from the anniversary of his father’s death and one other Friday at the bar, they’d hardly seen each other. Which Jim kind of understood, on the one hand ... but on the other, it was really shitty, and if Bones wasn't directly in front of him just at that moment, he didn't know if he'd be clear on where exactly their friendship was at.

Jim had tried to toe the weird line between giving Bones space and missing the shit out of the bastard, and yeah, he was done pretending he didn’t. They’d picked up their banter as usual without much difficulty when they had seen each other, but something new hung in the air between them -- something Jim was instinctively drawn to and something Bones seemed equally inclined to step back from. He’d felt it last weekend, weighing in their convivial silence on the walk across campus after all night at the bar; and Jim had tried to address it in some attempt at saving face as something other than a total emotional coward.

Unfortunately, the result had been less than ideal.

“Bones, you know I’m...?”

Bones had blinked at him. “What?”

“You know I would never--” He licked his lips. “You know I mean … to do … things.”

“Things?”

Jim had cleared his throat. “Everything?”

Bones’ eyelids had fluttered with annoyance. “Jim.”

“I just -- I don’t do things I don’t mean to do.”

He’d seemed to contemplate this for a moment, and Jim had perked up as he congratulated himself on his success; but then Bones’ expression had been mocking and sardonic as he turned his gaze back toward Jim. “Do you mean to tell me that you _intend_ to be late to half your exams, and take unskilled punches, and--”

“I have never been late to an exam!”

“--lose your books--”

“I’m -- that was _one time!_ And His Royal Cupcake had taken them on purpose, remember that?”

“--get slapped by three quarters of the people you hit on--”

“We’re talking about my autonomous decisions, here!”

“And you _were_ late to an exam last semester, I saw you hobbling down the halls while I was writing Xenobio. You had sunglasses on despite that it’d been raining that morning. Was the hangover on purpose, too?”

Jim had stopped dead in his tracks and gaped wordlessly at Bones, who’d smirked at him and shoved him gently to the side as the sidewalk split before them. “Wow, you just can’t handle my sparkling success in the face of overwhelming odds, can you?” Jim had sputtered after him, and Bones’ grin had indented his cheeks.

“Goodnight, Jim,” Bones had replied without turning; and there’d been something in his tone that suggested he’d known exactly what Jim had been trying to say, after all.

So Jim had given up on using words and tried his usual approach, and now Bones’ hand was tightening in Jim’s tie on the dance floor, and yeah, Jim was pretty sure he was a genius after all. “Am I avoiding you now?” Bones asked, voice still low and smooth.

Thrill danced over Jim’s spine. “No,” he admitted, leaning into Bones’ grasp.

“Then there’s no problem.” Bones’ left hand was planted firmly on Jim’s hip, only his thumb was tracing the protruding bone again and again in time with the rhythm. His other hand unwrapped itself from Jim’s tie, flattened it against his chest, then wrapped itself back into it again, and, um, this might've been working slightly _too_ well, actually.

“Good. So, hey, listen." Jim swallowed around a weird lump in his throat. "In the spirit of keeping to our agreement about how I’m not going to fuck you around -- what do I do about this?”

“This?” Bones frowned way too hard to denote legitimate confusion, but, okay, sure, Jim could play.

“You all up in my," he gestured, "necktie. And I guarantee you, I’m not complaining. Please do this -- any and/or all of this -- anytime. An-y-time, Bones. For serious. Please. Anytime you feel like it. I’ll keep saying it if I’m being unclear -- _whenever._ I’m up for it. But just so I know what _my_ role is and how I can avoid fucking up here -- what actually _is_ this? How do I take this?”

“At face value,” Bones replied, deadpan. “We are dancing.”

“Right. As friends.”

Bones’ smile was slow and ironic. “In suits. Which you started.”

“Riiight. So this tension right now." Bones' hand was well tangled in his tie again and seemed perfectly happy there. "I started it.”

The corner of Bones’ mouth hitched higher, and there was something in Bones’ eyes that Jim wasn’t used to seeing. “I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Bones replied with false levity.

Jim tested his hands on Bones’ hips, brought him in closer, closed the gap between them. They kept eye contact throughout, Jim trying to make sure that he wasn’t causing any panic; and in fact, Bones’ expression grew dark and lascivious, his lower lip disappearing between his teeth. With his tightening grasp in Jim’s tie, it was all Jim could do to keep back.

“I started this?” he asked instead of kissing him.

“As has been demonstrated,” Bones said, voice suddenly low again as his hand unfurled once more, “you start shit.”

Bones had shifted to accommodate the proximity of Jim’s hips and was now guiding him into the motions with both hands, the strength of his fingers and proficiency of rhythm spiking Jim’s arousal levels. His thighs screamed with the effort, but the nature of the contact between them was serving to bring Jim’s attention to the fact of both of their erections, and oh, Christ, this felt good. “Forgive me, Bones, but I’m having a difficult fucking time believing that you don’t want me right now.”

“The problem, kid,” Bones replied, hands gripping almost aggressively at Jim’s skin as his voice graveled almost inaudibly, “is that I want you too damn much.” He set his forehead gently against Jim’s, and Bones’ breath was hot over Jim’s lips for a few beats; then one hand slipped around Jim’s jaw, guiding his face alongside Bones’ until his lips fluttered against Jim’s ear. “You show up in your goddamned suit and tell me we’re going dancing, and you know what I do? I actually go along. I go along with every one of your insane schemes to generate sexual tension between us, and this is exactly the mistake I knew it’d be -- and yet I did it anyway.”

"Bones," Jim breathed. "Nothing has ever felt less like a mistake."

Bones’ fingertips rubbed against the back of Jim’s neck. “You act like it’s simple," he growled, something in his voice running rough, and Jim's breath stuttered along with it. "It ain’t simple. It’s anything but simple. I keep trying to tell you that I can’t do casual with you, and you take me out and fucking do _this_ , with bullshit neckties and underperforming air conditioning, and you still can’t figure out why casual isn’t in the works?" Bones gripped him closer, as though to prove the point. "This is systematic. You invested me. And this ain’t fair, you making me want you this way when you ain’t willing to offer it back. This is my option, to give in to it partway but not so far that I can’t find my way back. _Christ_ , Jim,” he gritted out as Jim’s hands wended their way toward the small of Bones’ back, gripping possessively at his shirt. “Quit wondering why I avoid you in the meantime. One person can only take so much.”

“Bones,” was Jim’s only reply. Bones’ skin was hot against his cheek, the smell of sweat piercing the scent of cologne Jim had never seen him put on, and the hand that guided his hip through the beat facilitated spikes of arousal that shot through his nervous system like bolts of lightning. “Bones.”

“You keep calling me that goddamned name.” Bones’ voice sounded shattered.

“Okay. All right.” Jim shifted just enough, careful not to break the rhythm, until his lips were brushing against the shell of Bones’ ear to be sure he could be heard. “I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m ... look, okay, I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said, about how we can’t do casual. And I get your point,” Jim continued, trying to prioritize empathy in his tone when his limbs were pulsing with desire, skin crawling under Bones' touch. “I do, I get it. You don’t want to get involved in something the other person isn’t as far into. You don’t want to fuck a friend who phrases it like a friend-fuck when in actuality I’m constantly finding reasons to do things like _this_ , to get as psychologically close to fucking as we ever can without actually doing the deed itself. Nothing we ever do will ever be casual, I feel that. I feel that so _fucking hard,_ Bones--” Something cracked in Jim’s voice, and Bones’ fingers gripped at his neck, ground his hips against him -- “because I want you all the fucking _time_. Wherever we are, whatever we’re doing, I’m just waiting for the moment you’re going to push me against the wall and take me apart. The whole fucking thing is a huge mindfuck, and I get why taking the next step is hard -- because then the mindfuck gets real.

"But _Bones_.” Jim’s voice broke completely over his name and forced Bones to clutch his hand tighter into his hip, their movements all the while enslaved to the beat. “That means we stopped being casual a long time ago -- _both of us_. We’re already there, we’re already doing the stupid fucking thing. And that’s the best thing about doing something like this with your best friend, because it’s no fun being an idiot alone, and I get that you can’t do casual because you think you’re here by yourself. But you should know that there is absolutely nothing fucking casual about how _often_ and how _much_ I want you to bend me over a table and fuck me until I can’t see straight, and--”

But Bones’ breath had caught in his throat and suddenly he wrenched Jim’s head back from his ear, crushed his lips into him, as hot and as good and as _thorough_ as it’d been a month prior, only this time Bones tasted of whiskey instead of tequila and that was so much better, somehow, in its rightness. Bones’ grip was tight on Jim’s hip, grinding him down in time with shallow swipes of his tongue that seem to hit somewhere new within Jim each time, and Jim was forced to reposition his hands, bracing themselves around Bones’ shoulders to keep his knees from falling out from under him.

“Then let’s fucking go do it,” Bones growled, tone harsh and deep and cracking as though under intense pressure, and it was everything Jim had ever wanted to hear in his life.

“Are you sure?” he replied, words sticking in his throat as he attempted a lighter tone. “Because the end of that sentence was going to go something like ‘ _in the event_ ’--”

“You’re gonna give me a speech like that and not expect me to take you up on all that? I don’t think so, kid. I’ll fucking take you apart all right. But it ain’t gonna be here.”

“Okay,” Jim said breathily, dazedly. “Your place or mine?”

“Let’s focus on ‘out of here’ and figure out the next step later,” Bones said; but he continued to grind his hips in time with the music as he slotted his mouth back over Jim’s. Jim’s hands gripped at Bones’ sides, his shirt stuck tight to his body with sweat; and he let Bones’ tongue delve greedily into his mouth, likewise keeping a sort of abstract rhythm to lull Jim into a rapturous trance of heat and movement and _Bones._

“We have to go, now,” Jim managed eventually, coming back to himself enough at last to break away from Bones; and he took his hand and dragged him abruptly out of the club, absolutely not willing to wait another moment before finally, _finally_ , having Bones entice him into bed.

\---

The ride home had been _long_.

They’d made it to the transit stop uninterrupted, but upon arrival Bones had swept Jim aside and leaned him gently up against the tree, one hand cupping his jaw while he went about mapping the geography of Jim’s mouth in excruciating detail. Bones wrapped the other arm around his back to hold Jim tightly against him; and it hadn’t been until Jim became aware of the faint glow of approaching headlights that Bones stepped reluctantly back.

“Shuttle’s coming,” he’d rumbled against Jim’s lips before slipping away to hail it down, and Jim had needed a moment to steady himself before following.

They’d sat on the shuttle in complete silence for ten solid minutes, thighs pressed against each other, before Jim had swallowed heavily and turned to look at Bones, keen to see him in the light for the first time in solid hours. Bones had continued to stare straight ahead, hands folded neatly in his lap; and he’d let Jim study him for fifteen agonizing seconds before he’d finally turned his head, just barely enough to catch Jim’s gaze, looking at him with blown pupils and a set jaw that forced Jim’s breath to catch. A moment later in which Jim's chest had seized and Jim was straddled over Bones’ lap, kissing him wordlessly while tugging wantonly at his necktie, expecting Bones’ objections about making a scene in public to stop him before he got too involved; but after a soft and warning “Jim,” Bones’ hands had snapped to Jim’s ass as his hips bucked scantly, slightly, surreptitiously beneath him, and Jim was suddenly extremely glad he’d chosen a club relatively close to campus.

They’d taken the hallway of Bones’ dorm in a staggering zigzag, stopping for minutes at a time to make out against the wall, eventually synchronizing their movements enough to stumble around the corner and halfway undress at the same time. By the time Bones leaned him up against his front door, Jim had tugged Bones’ shirttails out from his belt and was running his hands up and down the skin of Bones’ torso beneath the fabric, breathing deep, steadying breaths as Bones inputted the code blindly, pressing his forehead against Jim’s, his free hand over the back of Jim's neck.

“This was a long time coming, Bones,” Jim muttered, and Bones caught him gracefully around the waist as the door gave way behind him.

“You’re telling me,” Bones growled back, holding Jim against him as he stepped them backward into the room. “Never thought I’d hear that speech outta you.”

Jim’s reply was lost in a moan as Bones attacked his neck with his lips and teeth, leaning Jim against the wall and palming at Jim’s erection through his dress pants, the other hand gripped at the flank of Jim’s sternum. “This suit is tailored,” Bones remarked with a snarl, and Jim was struck by the hint of need in it.

“Everybody needs one tailored suit, Bones,” he breathed over his ear before snagging his earlobe between his teeth.

“Unfair advantage.”

Jim’s breath faltered as Bones’ hand squeezed. “Part of the plan.”

“Fuck you and your plan.”

“Any second now,” Jim replied, breath short as he knocked his fingers lightly against Bones’ chin to get his lips to slide back over his own. Bones’ free hand found its way back into Jim’s tie, and Jim’s hands made quick work of Bones’ belt buckle and clasp on his pants. In no time at all Bones’ cock was hard and warm in the palm of his hand, the hand over his own groin snapping suddenly to his hip instead in a silent, steadying gesture, Bones’ forehead folding into his shoulder.

“You can’t just,” Bones mouthed against his skin, cutting short as Jim tightened his grip; and then Bones’ hands were jumping to undo his own belt, clearly not to be outdone. "Are we too drunk for this," he breathed; it wasn't a question.

"I mean, we could check, buuu--" Jim's sentence trailed off into an unexpected groan as Bones' wrist bent awkwardly, not bothering to waste time on doing away with pants entirely; and one strong, capable, _fucking fantastic_ finger after another finally wrapped itself around Jim's cock, and Jim immediately decided that this was abso _lutely_  worth the wait. "I think our dicks are working just fine."

Bones hummed distantly and nosed his way back toward Jim's mouth, his free hand drawing Jim's away from his crotch and interlacing their fingers together in the air. Bones stepped closer, kissed Jim with the same slow intention as before, and in seconds all Jim knew were lips and tongue, the warmth of Bones' skin under his fingers, and steady, subtle, pulsing squeezes at his cock.

"What are you," Jim asked eventually, pulling away after several minutes had passed, a staggering dizziness settling around him. "What is this?"

"Takin' you apart," Bones replied, voice as light as it was heavy, the balance betraying that he was trying too hard to make this reality sound obvious. "As requested."

"It's not supposed to be that easy," he replied thickly. Bones had, at some point, pushed Jim's pants down over his ass to free his cock and balls, and the palm of Bones' hand now circled over the head of his cock before returning, gently lubricated, to wrap itself back around the shaft.

"Oh." Bones' wrist flicked, and Jim's thighs indicated imminent defeat with a shudder. "Dreadfully sorry, there, Jim boy."

"Souther -- _fucking_ \-- you can't do that when I'm in the middle of a sen -- _Christ._ "

Bones' wrist had flicked twice more. "Sorry again, darlin'. Reflex."

"Reflex my -- _fuck_."

Jim was completely unsure about whether he really loved or really hated the mischievous twitch in Bones' jaw. "I'm sorry, really I am -- did you want to say something?"

Jim put every ounce of his will toward loosening his grip on Bones' shirt, but rethought his strategy as the palm of Bones' hand returned to collect more precum. "I'm fucking furious with you right now," Jim growled, forcing himself to stare Bones in the eye.

Bones stared back, unblinking, and replaced his fingers over Jim's cock one by one. "Is that all?" A gentle stroke, and Bones' hands felt calloused with the friction.

"No," he managed. "Actually, we need to decide -- hhgnn -- _you_ need to decide exactly what y -- ffff -- what you, what you want to do, here, becau -- agh -- okay I usually have more stamina, I promise, please believe me on this, but -- Bones, fucking, Jesus Christ, I must be drunker than, because I'm like --"

Bones' free hand suddenly snapped around the back of Jim's neck as Bones attacked his mouth with far more ferocity than Jim was expecting, Jim's overt desire apparently setting something off some fire deep within him; and the hand circling his cock suddenly disappeared, forcing out of him a groan of disappointment and lacking, which Bones immediately echoed.

"Fucking you," Bones breathed, breaking away and fixing his hand in Jim's shirt, "sounded good."

"Yeah," Jim agreed, searching Bones' face dazedly and wishing there was about a billion more points of contact between them as Bones slipped off his shoes with his toes. "That was a great idea that I had."

" _You_ had!" Bones' Southern drawl had been replaced once again by his aggressive urban annoyance now that things needed to get done, and he tugged Jim gently away from the wall, leading him as quickly as the pants still circled around Jim's thighs would let them while Bones kicked off his own slacks en route.

"Um, yes. You have never stated any intention of fucking me. Believe me." Jim's hand located Bones' hip, while the other was slapped away as it approached his cock. "I would have noticed."

"Lack of statement," Bones reminded him, pushing him to the side and leaving him to tumble helplessly onto the bed, "does not preclude idea."

"Right," Jim replied as he kicked off his own shoes at the same time that he tried to grab Bones around the waist, "but I actually stated it. A lot, if you'll recall. I have Stardates. 2256.0--"

Bones had made quick work of Jim's pants once his shoes were gone, pulling them off in one fell swoop; and then he interrupted Jim, _rudely_ , by crawling on top of him, parting his legs and kissing him stupid, his hand finding itself easily back around Jim's cock while Jim's own hand slid slowly down over Bones' chest and torso. For a breath-hitching second, it glancing teasingly across his shaft, fingertips aiming down and sliding with ghosting touches; but then his hand kept going, settled itself instead over Bones' ballsack and, after an intrigued moment of familiarization, _squeezed_.

Bones' shoulders shuddered, the kiss interrupted by a forcible exhale, the knuckles of Bones' fingers twitching almost imperceptibly around his cock; and Jim suddenly realized Bones was just as far gone as he was. "Bones," he breathed, and Bones shuddered again, a steadying fist jumping to the bed as Jim's fingers danced over Bones' testicles and wrapped themselves carefully around the length of him, the blood in his veins pumping hot against Jim's palm. "Bones."

"You can't keep calling me that."

Jim leaned up suddenly, nipping at Bones' neck as his hand collected the sweat gathering in the small of his back; then, switching hands seamlessly, he set a lazy but steady rhythm, encouraging Bones to move his hips to counteract the laziness of his hand, rewarding each of Bones' thrusts with increased pressure both of the hand over his cock and of the suction of the pressure point in his neck. Soon Bones' hands were at Jim's hips, bracing them to the bed as he set his thrusts low enough to catch Jim's cock in the friction of each movement; and Jim's head fell back against the bed. "Bones," he breathed, and Bones' breath was suddenly harsh against his neck.

"You can't fucking call me that," he said again, sounding desperate either for Jim to understand or for Jim to finish the fucking job already; but Jim wasn't about to let that happen.

"You imagined fucking me, Bones?"

"Good enough," he said shortly, and Jim frowned.

"Good enough!" He changed the angle of his wrist, and Bones faltered above him.

"Just fucking good," he corrected, and Jim braced his free hand in the crux of Bones' shoulder.

"News for you, Bones," Jim breathed, barely getting the words out in sequence with the pace of Bones' hips. "When you fuck me with this fucking fantastic cock of yours, while you're opening me up with those incredible fingers, my vocabulary is only gonna have one word in it that isn't profanity. It's gonna be -- gonna be the same word I say every time -- every time I think of this --"

"God damnit, Jim," and Bones' voice was caught between a choke and a whisper as his fingers dug into Jim's hips, "I need--"

But Jim was already a step ahead of him, suddenly applying pulsating pressure in time with Bones' thrusts until Bones was swearing into his neck and coming all over Jim's hand; and Jim was only seconds behind, the orgasm ripping out of him with a force he hadn't expected, syllables falling out of his mouth in a sequence he was certain couldn't make sense -- until, at last, he came to himself to find Bones collapsed completely on top of him, head resting on his ribcage, his shoulders depicting the struggle to catch his breath.

"Ruined your suit," he said eventually, mouth barely moving against his chest; and Jim gave a breathy laughter that seemed to take far too much out of him.

"Ruined it in that fucking club," he rasped in return, and barely noticed when Bones pulled the shirt and tie up off over his head and used it to clean them off. "Doesn't mean it's a rag," he said, attempting indignation as he opened a bleary eye; but Bones only tossed it aside and collapsed onto the pillows.

"You owe me clothes anyway," he shrugged, settling himself into the bed, himself already magically bereft of clothing. "You gonna stay?"

"'m not going home now," Jim muttered, wondering faintly (hopefully? no, whatever, post-orgasm brain wasn't reliable) whether or not Bones was going to try to _cuddle with him_ or something; but whether or not he did Jim never knew, for unconsciousness took him in few precarious seconds.

\---

Jim liked getting to know people. That much was definitely true. Every body was different, every set of genitals (or species-specific equivalent) was different, every skin under his hands and every pair of hands on his skin -- different. That was fucking cool. And he was nothing if not curious, and curiosity usually tumbled into desire, and who was he to stop the inevitable de-robing and eventual orgasminating (or species-specific equivalent) that generally resulted after his inquiries _of curiosity_? All right, granted, sometimes they were more overt statements of wanton desire, but to Jim it was mostly the same difference.

Learning about the parts and reactions of all kinds of humans and aliens? Ascertaining the potential for interspecies relations and, god forbid, breeding? All part of a good Starfleet education. Important knowledge, that. He was _studying._

But sometimes Jim got _bored_ , as he did. Predictable patterns were never his bag. So he usually avoided hooking up with the same person twice, just to avoid the potential heartache when he suddenly got overcome with the desire to act like a horse’s ass and express distraction when a person did the same thing they did last time. He’d learned early in his career of sexual activity that more-than-once usually led to yelling or crying or, worse, _expectations_ , and he generally found it easier to avoid those things by never making a repeat appearance.

Bones had accused him early on in their friendship of fleeing from every good thing. Jim disagreed fervently with that analysis. He knew a good thing when he had it. Most things were usually _fine_ , and everything was almost always _fun_ , but _good_ was a word reserved for specific circumstances -- an unusual experience, or a person capable of showing him something new every time they boned each other.

People were predictable -- which was not by itself a problem. That’s why you found new people.

Bones? Bones was, at least by contrast, _not predictable at all._

Which Jim thought was odd for a creature of habit such as Bones was, but either Bones was secretly the world’s most impulsive asshole, or there were variables Jim wasn’t accounting for. For example: Jim had honestly thought that his little diatribe at the club would’ve been enough to convince Bones that he was more than passively interested in him as a human being. He’d counted on that fact, to be honest -- but then, to his total confusion, he’d awoken the next morning to find Bones gone from his own quarters, the only evidence of his ever having been there a note left on the desk, which said only: _Lock the door on your way out._

Jim had stood, naked and puzzled, in the middle of Bones’ quarters for a long time, reading and rereading the note. Jim wasn’t usually the one to be left, and when he was he generally didn’t care; but this felt wrong to him somehow, like Bones was the one who was disengaged. Some unpleasant feeling Jim didn’t recognize was spreading like wildfire through his limbs, and then he was feeling vaguely guilty on top of that for every time he’d caused this feeling in another person.

After scratching the back of his neck in confusion for a solid minute, he’d opted to put on the sordid, wrinkled remains of his suit and go out in search of breakfast to see if that would help to kill the terrible knot in his stomach. But then it hadn’t, and he’d had to go try to find Bones all day, because he was pretty sure it wasn’t going to go away by itself. But for more checkmarks in the category of ‘Bones was not predictable,’ he was surprisingly good at being evasive, having apparently left the clinic five minutes before Jim had gotten there, being neither in his quarters, nor the labs, nor the mess, nor any damn place Jim looked for solid hours.

He did, however, find Uhura.

“Uhura!” Jim shouted down the corridor, breaking into a jog upon spotting her striding out of a nearby stairwell of the sciences wing. He could almost hear Uhura’s eyeroll as she spun around to face him. “Have you seen Bones?” he huffed, slowing to a stop in front of her.

She only blinked at him and crossed her arms.

“You _have_ seen Bones! D’you know where he went? I’ve been trying to find him all day.”

“I think you’re better off giving him time,” she replied delicately.

“Ugh! No. I don’t want to. I don’t know what happened. He just--” Jim waved a hand. “I need to know if he’s mad at me.”

Uhura’s expression rearranged itself into something approaching sympathy. “He’s not mad at _you_ ,” she said -- and then immediately looked like she rued having said the words aloud.

Jim frowned. “Who’s he mad at?”

She gave him a sidelong glance and huffed suspiciously. “Are you fucking him around, Kirk?”

“No! Everyone keeps asking me that!”

“He means more to you than just a casual fuck?”

“Yes!! I told him so! Would I be chasing him all over the goddamned campus if he didn’t?”

Uhura sighed with a mixture of pity and comprehension. “Then give him time. Seriously. Give him space. Let him sort out whatever he needs to sort out.”

“What’s to sort out?” Jim breathed, throwing his arms wide with incomprehension. “It was -- it was --”

She rolled her eyes. “Spit it out, Kirk, I’ve already heard way too much about it.”

“It was _good_!” he exclaimed. “I’m sure it was. I usually know when it’s not, right, I’ve fucked up enough times to get those signs, but there were _none_ of those here! Like -- Uhura -- it was really fucking good, okay, like, fuck, I don’t know if it was the slow build or what, but holy shit, I haven’t come like that in a long --” Uhura set a hand across her forehead in clear regret of her decision to ask Jim to say words, and Jim changed tacks. “But then this morning he just wasn’t there, and I can’t find him anywhere, and you don’t just … _leave_ after something like that!”

“ _You_ do that all the time!”

“Well -- yeah, but -- I don’t usually...”

“Like the people you fuck?” she prompted.

“No! I like everyone I sleep with, I’m not depraved, Jesus Christ. But this is,” Jim waved a hand instead of continuing. “I just want to talk to him. I don’t understand why he’s avoiding me.”

Uhura stared at him. “That’s weird for you, not understanding, isn’t it?”

Jim’s jaw clenched involuntarily. “Yeah,” he said eventually. “And also the fact that I care about it is weird? Usually if someone doesn’t want to see me, fine. But this...”

“Well, it’s weird for him too,” she informed him primly. “All the assumptions about yourself that you’re challenging right now because of this concern you’re not used to? He has those same assumptions, and he doesn’t have your perspective for context. Think about that.” She planted a long finger in his chest. “And _give him time._ I’m serious. If he doesn’t want to see you, stop chasing him down.”

Jim blinked after her and mulled over her words as she turned and strode down the hall. “Uhura?” he called after her.

She spun around and continued to walk backwards. “What?”

“Thanks.”

If Jim hadn’t seen the smile for himself, he wouldn’t have believed it. “You never saw me,” she reminded him, pointing sternly; and then she turned her back and was gone.

Contemplatively, Jim returned to his quarters...  
...for about five minutes. And then he returned to Bones’.

He’d spun inside to find the premises not only empty, but showing no sign of Bones’ return at all, to Jim’s ongoing exasperation -- he was seconds away from _bemoaning_ Bones’ failure to be predictable, though he could hardly believe it himself -- but just as Jim had been seriously considering leaving again, Bones suddenly stopped dead in the open doorway, one hand cradling take-out.

“God fucking _damn it,_ ” Bones muttered before turning away again. Jim’s broad grin dissolved immediately into a heavy frown, and he snapped quickly out the door after him.

“Bones! Bones, will you stop for _five seconds_ \--” He reached out a hand to pull at Bones’ shoulder.

Bones faltered badly at the contact, dropping the bag of food on the ground. “I’m starting to understand why you get hit so much,” he graveled, shoving Jim’s hand off his shoulder and turning to face him.

Bones’ body language was aggressive, and Jim breathed with the knowledge that this was something he knew how to deal with. “You’re not going to win a fight against me, Bones, but go ahead and hit me if you want to.” Jim reached out and pushed gently at Bones’ shoulder, trying either to get a rise out of him or to get him to soften; but Bones only swatted ineffectually at Jim’s arm. He looked utterly defeated in moments interspersed between aggravated glares, and the knot in Jim’s stomach pulled tighter.

He pushed Bones again for lack of a better next move, and Bones was forced to take a step back. “What’s your move, McCoy? Fuck me yesterday, leave me this morning, fight me this afternoon?”

Bones’ expression relaxed with something Jim couldn't read, but the flash of emotion seemed to spurn him on. He grabbed at the front of Jim’s shirt, but Jim easily engaged his arms, and twenty seconds of benign struggling later, Jim had Bones pinned against the wall, one arm thrown over his ribcage and the other holding one hand near his hip.

“Your combat training is shit, Bones. Oughta do something about that.”

Bones’ other hand pushed against Jim’s ribcage. “Fuck you,” Bones bit back.

Jim couldn’t help the smile that hinted at his lips. Bones was actually trying to scare him off. “You’re avoiding me again,” Jim accused, direct but even.

“Yeah! I am!”

“Why?” Jim asked; and he felt his expression slacken into sincerity without his putting an ounce of effort into it, concern shining readily through.

Bones only breathed in his face.

“Because I thought I was being clear,” Jim continued, “with some of my word choices, about the degree to which I want you? I think there was ‘often’ and ‘much’ and ‘all the time’ in there, amidst other colourful descriptors that you have yet to take me up on, by the way--”

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” Bones drawled angrily.

“No,” Jim said honestly, moving his arm from across Bones’ chest to rest his hand in the hem of his jacket instead. “I don’t make claims like that unless I mean them. Damage control 101, Bones.”

“Charming,” he spat, unable to contain the compulsion to banter.

“And it’s fine if you don’t want me. I know that sounds rich,” he added, accurately reading Bones’ expression, “but I’ve made my point, now. You and me? Hot as hell. You can walk away from that if you want to, but I’m all for carrying it on.”

“Until something better comes along.”

“You’re bigger than me.” He tugged at Bones’ jacket, moved his other hand away from his wrist to grip at Bones’ hip. “You’ll hold me back.”

Bones clenched his jaw, his hand fisting in Jim’s shirt. “I made a mistake.”

“I don’t see how you did.”

“I temporarily tricked myself into believing you to be someone you’re not just because I was hard for you, and that’s on me.”

“I don’t think you were wrong about me. You’d see that if you’d give me a chance.”

“I hate taking chances. I took one last night, and now here we are.”

“This is your choice, Bones. Friendly reminder that I just spent the day chasing you down.”

Bones exhaled heavily, and the rumbling noise in his chest grew louder. “Let go of me.” Bones’ free hand closed over Jim’s fist.

“I’d rather not.”

He wrenched Jim smoothly off of him, but the gesture was half-hearted; Jim smiled and rallied, scrambling with him briefly before grabbing both of Bones’ wrists and gently holding them aloft against the wall behind him. “Leave me alone,” Bones growled, leaning into the request, breath slanting warmly across Jim’s face.

“I won’t,” Jim promised quietly, lacing his fingers in together with Bones’. “Probably not ever. I’m annoying like that.”

Something in Bones’ gaze slid sideways as the hardness of his expression fell away in degrees, and Jim felt a vague slipping sensation along with it. “I don’t get why you’re so afraid of your feelings, Bones,” he rasped, stepping closer, sliding his nose in beside Bones’; “I’m not.”

And _there_ was the telltale snap, the noise in Bones’ throat that was half-gasp and half-growl, and then Bones’ lips were on Jim’s and Jim’s hands were gripping at his back, and thirty seconds later they were inside Bones’ quarters and Jim’s shirt was already gone and Bones had him up against the wall and halfway to losing his footing with what he was doing to Jim’s neck.

“You’re asking for a goddamn shitstorm, Jim.” Bones’ throat gritted out Jim’s name in the same way that his teeth raked over his collarbone, and the hand in Bones’ hair tightened involuntarily.

“Fuck, I hope so,” Jim replied, the last word falling out from under him; and Bones guided him immediately to the bed as though to prove it.

And that was when Jim realized: Bones McCoy was most definitely, one hundred percent confirmed, a _good fucking thing._

Bones’ feelings, whatever they were, were actually kind of the best part about the whole situation. They kept manifesting in different ways, and that kept Jim incredibly fucking interested. Suddenly Bones’ hands were all over him all the time, at least when they were in private, and it was every bit as good as Jim had spent the last six months imagining. Bones seemed to have a certain appreciation for Jim’s physical form that Jim had never twigged on, despite the myriad opportunities for physical proximity that had previously presented themselves; but now the pads of his fingers traced the hard lines of Jim’s bones almost compulsively, his palms flush against Jim’s muscles, hands steady and steady and steady until they weren’t and had to grab on to stabilize, and Jim was fucking electric with it.

Bones also seemed to have an intriguingly strategic mind that Jim was actually having trouble keeping up with. It wasn’t that Jim was _whatsoever unoriginal_ , thank you very much; but it was rather that Bones seemed to have a new trick up his sleeve every time they got naked. He had this uncanny knack of pulling Jim in with a certain persistence of rhythm, whether using mouth or hands or cock or sometimes all three; and he seemed to be running the gambit on every iteration of this theme before even considering to settle into a routine of any sort. Though Jim gained significant flexibility of initiative after the first month of exploratory escapades, Bones had at the outset seemed to prefer Jim to come first most of the time, with an additional clear enjoyment of Jim’s sometimes totally wrecked attempts at getting Bones off after the fact.

(“Take your time,” he would say, laughter filling his voice as encouraged Jim’s hand around his cock.  
“You are evil incarnate,” Jim would invariably reply, head often still light enough with his recent orgasm to leave him wondering if he’d actually formed a coherent sentence.  
“You don’t seem to mind,” Bones would drawl, slightly more Southern just to annoy him; and Jim’s chief response would be something analogous to attempting the re-creation of the world’s slowest, most prolonged, most focused handjob ever given, as though he was trying to win the competition for nefariousness.)

And Jim, to his chagrin, usually found himself helpless to Bones’ plans. Every once in awhile he’d object, usually too late, usually when Bones had already dragged him into the undertow of whatever he had in mind; and Bones would politely stop and ask what he wanted to do instead. And Jim would tell him, and Bones would mouth against his skin as he was doing so, and then Bones would quietly tell him his own idea once he was finished; and Jim would almost always groan and agree that, yeah, that sounded better, and Bones would immediately carry on where he left off.

Jim was certain it was the words he used. Bones’ intonation, maybe. His methodical approach. Ingenuity of concept? _Something_ about Bones had to be affecting Jim in some way, because, damnit, he was the sexual genius, okay, he’d done nothing but practice for eight solid years and he wasn’t shy on theory, either -- and yet Bones was somehow inexplicably the ideas man here. It probably helped that Bones knew Jim would be up for almost anything he could possibly think of; but as Bones’ occasional mid-fuck admission that he’d “thought a lot about this” tended to convey, Jim thought it was probably also the feelings thing that was again making the difference.

The impact of these Bones-feelings on their sex life was varied. There had been, for example, the time Bones had spun Jim around before he’d even finished his flourishing entrance into Bones’ quarters and detailed directly into his mouth an extremely intriguing idea involving fucking Jim stupid in the doorway to the bathroom. Thirty minutes later and Jim was resting his forehead against the backs of his hands on the doorframe, mouthing profanities automatically as Bones gripped his hips and pounded into him from behind; then suddenly Bones’ hand was on his cock and his mouth was at his ear, and it had only taken three steady strokes and Bones’ growl of “I am fucking the future Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise” for Jim to come, _hard_ , and Bones’ shuddering hips behind him seconds later told Jim he had done the same.

Jim was next distantly aware of breaths of Bones’ laughter dancing across his shoulderblade, the shake of Bones’ shoulders draped over his back sending pulses through both of their bodies; and then Bones’ arms grasped heavily over Jim’s chest, Bones’ quiet whisper of “I can’t believe that worked” receding into deep, heavy, steadying breaths, and Jim could feel _caring_ radiating off him in great, staggering waves.

Jim _did_ appreciate these Bones-feelings; but he also worried about them very often. The thing was -- he wasn’t totally sure whether he had feelings to reciprocate.

Jim reasoned that had an ongoing interest in keeping Bones (a) happy and (b) around him as much as possible. Did that count as feelings? He thought it was probably just friendship. A good fucking friendship -- complete with good fucking -- but friendship at its basic core. He was true to his word and had no intention of stopping sex with Bones -- he remained actively interested in fucking Bones on a daily basis, to his own ongoing amazement -- but their foremost relation was way more basic than anything _feelings_ might have denoted. Yes, there was a decided psychological element; but again, that was friendship. A not-casual friendship. That was, like, normal friendship, right? It was totally just friendship.

But then again, his own reactions sometimes kind of confused him a little bit sometimes. Like -- _a little bit_. It still basically felt like friendship. But … well.

There was the very confusing time after Jim had stormed into Bones’ room determined to implement a sex act of his own persuasion, and pushed Bones down on the bed without further ado. “Hi, Jim,” Bones had intoned, attempting seriousness without success as Jim had bounded on top of him. “How are you, yes my day was fine thanks, no I didn’t kill anyone in surgery today, yes I am feeling a bit hungry actually since you--”

“I’d like to fuck you in the ass,” Jim had cut him off, grin boyish and broad.

Bones’ smile had immediately disappeared.

“With my cock,” he clarified, as though Bones was confused.

“I don’t think so,” he said quickly.

This was not the reaction Jim had expected. “Are you pulling my leg right now?”

“Nooo,” Bones prolonged, then gave a flutter of nervous laughter. “There’s no way.”

“What! I mean, it’s fine if you're not into it, but I'm kind of surprised--”

“Have you seen your cock?”

“Yeah! The general consensus is that it’s great!”

“Great it is. No one’s ass is structurally capable of taking that monstrosity.”

Jim’s grin had broadened exponentially. “Why, Bones. I was beginning to think you didn’t have any hangups.”

“ _Not_ a hangup,” he’d clarified quickly, holding a finger aloft. “It’s a medical professional’s awareness of a physical improbability.”

“Have you never been fucked before?”

“Many times! But not with anything as substantial as your dick. Fuck me with something else if you want, Kirk, but not with that.” He’d gestured to Jim’s groin.

“I have fucked several asses with ‘this’,” Jim told him plainly, “and no one has died.”

Bones’ lips had pursed into a thin line, his ears turning a deep shade of red as his adam’s apple seemed to tighten in his throat. “Are you _sure_?” His eyes seemed to be seeking an avenue for escape.

“Bones,” Jim had grinned; and Bones had given a burst of nervous laughter and hidden his face in his hands.

Jim felt something summersault in his chest, his cheeks almost bursting with the effort of his joy. “Bones!” He giggled wildly as he wrestled with Bones’ hands. “No, come back! Come back, come back, we’ll work on it. Look at me. Bones.” He succeeded in prying Bones’ hands away from his face and pinned his wrists to the bed, and Bones tried to hide a blushing, circumspect grin in pressed lips without much success. “We will work up to it. Trust me. It’ll work. It’ll be okay. It doesn’t have to be now or anytime soon. Oh my god. You are fucking adorable.”

“Shut up,” Bones said shortly, trying and failing to sound mean, and Jim was positively giddy.

“It’ll be fun,” Jim assured him, and kissed him to prove the point. “I promise.”

Bones’ hands opened and closed, annoyed at their inability to reach Jim. “We’ll see about that,” he grumbled, more successfully this time -- though his voice remained just a slight pitch higher than usual -- and Jim had laughed, let go of his hands, and kissed him again.

“It’ll be okay. It’ll _work_ ,” he assured him through engaged lips. “New project! Yaaaay!”

\-- And he was vaguely aware that his heart was racing as Bones’ hands worked their way into his hair, and definitely conscious of his own hands gripping tighter against Bones’ skin because of some reaction that was happening that felt different than the normal desire crap; and that had been the first _very confusing_ time he’d suspected that maybe, _possibly,_ he had something resembling feelings that were not quite solely of friendship calibre.

And then, of course, there’d been the much more _pedestrian_ time that the suspicion had creeped over him, when Bones had grunted at the summer solstice celebrations happening around them as they took a shuttle to a distant bar. He’d been all bad day and sour attitude, probably believing himself to be way too sober; and as they’d passed what looked like a pretty substantial barbeque party held in a local park, Bones had huffed his annoyance and offered with extreme conviction, “I hate every holiday.”

Jim had snapped his head over to him, totally incredulous that there was anything to be annoyed about in the fucking _solstice_ for crying out loud, who didn’t love the goddamned _solstice_ , there was _nothing about it to hate_ ; and he was about to say all this to Bones, but then he got caught up after the slow repetition of, “you hate _every holiday?_ ”, the words suddenly striking him as completely hilarious and so utterly fucking _Bones_ that he’d started laughing against his better judgment. And Bones had frowned at him, brow knitted and eyes narrowed, and Jim had laughed harder, unable to stop himself, stupid emotion totally overrunning him until he had been compelled to drive his head into Bones’ shoulder with the sheer force of his affection.

“Christ, what’s the matter with you?”

“ _Nobody, hates, every, holiday,_ ” Jim had staggered out, tears leaking out from between shut eyelids, breathing exceptionally difficult due to whatever the hell was happening in his chest.

Bones had paused and then offered a quiet but curmudgeonly, “I do.”

And Jim had dissolved again completely into loud, uncontrollable giggles, sure by now he was making yet another scene on the transit shuttle, his hands hysterically seeking solace on Bones’ arm. And then, of all fucking things, Bones had huffed an incredulous breath of laughter and caught one of Jim’s hands with his own, grasping at his fingers and all the while looking totally confused but profoundly struck by how Jim was folding into him with side-splitting laughter at a passing comment that was decidedly not intended to generate this reaction -- and wasn’t that the damndest thing.

But that didn’t mean feelings, _necessarily_. That was just friendship. Right?

...To be fair, this too had been a _very confusing_ incident.

But he thought it probably wasn’t the most normal thing that he started defaulting to Bones’ quarters when he was coming home late at night, preferring the company and the warmth and even, goddamnit, the snoring to the emptiness of his own bed.

And it probably wasn’t usual that something shifted inexplicably within him every time Bones sent him a comm message after every few days of radio silence, usually something sufficiently ornery but always something that commanded a response -- a thinly veiled inquiry into whether Jim was still alive and well and coming over tonight or what. And that’s what friends _did_ , right, but then he _liked it_ or _something,_ it was hard to tell. Maybe it was just unusual. Unusual but also normal.

But then ultimately, he realized, it _definitely wasn’t_ normal that he sometimes had to cover his mouth with his fist while he stared prolongedly these comm messages Bones sent him, stupid fucking things like, “MacKinley legitimately believes that Caitians have nine lives and this is the jackass that’s getting a better grade than me in Xenobiology II?” or, “I can’t believe in the 23rd century they’re still trying to claim so-called ‘macaroni and cheese’ as an alleged meal fit for adult consumption -- order in?”

Yeah, it was decidedly uncharacteristic of his usual dispositions that these passing complaints basically _compromised him entirely_ , completely consuming whole seconds of his life while his brain tried to figure out his reactions to these messages in an unnecessarily intense, single-track way; and that the fist pressed against his lips seemed to serve to keep something shoved within him that was trying to crawl its way out by force.

That was weird, right? It felt really weird.

But fuck weird, he decided, and fuck normal harder. _Friendship._ It was a good thing, what they had going on, and also it was a friendship thing. A good friend-fuck thing. Good.

Friendship.

_Totally._

\---

“Fuck,” Jim whispered to himself one day when his was face buried in the crook of Bones’ neck. Bones had wrapped himself completely around Jim, one leg nestled between Jim’s with one heel nudging at Jim’s calf. Bones’ hands rested on his ribcage and his asscheek, and every ounce of his body language told him that Bones wanted as much of Jim against him as possible, even as his steady, sleeping breaths skated across the hairs on the back of Jim’s head.

It was the end of term and Jim hadn’t seen anyone at all in ten solid days, and he’d channelled all his energy into the moment when he finally barged into Bones’ quarters -- only to talk a mile a minute about how the finals were clearly marked on a bellcurve now that he’d received his first grade. Bones had smiled warmly at him before finally pulling him into his arms and cutting him off with slow, delving kisses that successfully made Jim forget completely about exams for the first time in days. Then in no time at all Bones had put that same tongue to use in rimming the everliving hell out of him, leaving him leaning on his own collapsed arms and grasping for purchase against the sheets while his breath ran ragged out of his lungs, until at last granted a brief reprieve in which Jim had struggled to catch his breath -- only to have a gasp torn out of him when Bones pushed a lube-slick finger slowly into him, followed by another, hooking and scissoring until joined by a third. Jim was back on the fucking edge, pushing himself back in time with Bones’ thrusts until Bones pulled his fingers away, letting Jim’s orgasm to wind back down into him as Bones ran his hands lightly over his back, his thighs, his calves, anywhere but his cock; and only once Jim felt like he might be able to form entire words again did Bones tug Jim back to the edge of the bed and push his cock into him with the sort of torturously slow, incremental precision that told him he was to be fucked with staggering thoroughness before being brought to release.

An hour of precarious balance between heaven and hell and Jim had finally come with a wrenching shout with Bones’ hand around him; and Jim had blinked himself back to life some time later in this blissed-out state, spaghetti-limbed and tangled in against another human being ...

 _... not wanting to be anywhere else in the goddamn world_.

There was no drive to get out and find someone else to punch or fuck, no sudden crushing ambition to get up and try to solve another impossible puzzle set out by Starfleet’s survival strategies manual. This was … _fine._ Actually, to hell with fine; this was way the fuck better than fine. This was ... _exactly where Jim wanted to be._

Bones shifted, picking up on the fact of Jim’s consciousness; and Jim suddenly felt the overwhelming need to disentangle himself. He moved heavy limbs as gently as possible with his shaking hands, willing Bones to stay asleep as he slid himself out from beneath him and sat up.

Waves of something definitely stronger than friendship crashed hard and unrelenting deep in his torso as he swung his feet over the edge of the bed and ran an aggressive hand through his hair, his pulse running faster than usual as he stared down the reality of his circumstances in the form of Bones beside him.

His mouth was open to accommodate his goddamn snoring, hair tousled with sleep, marks left over his shoulders from where Jim’s mouth had been -- this was not helping at all -- and -- his stupid back was doing this sexy thing where...

Fuck. Okay.  
It was time to admit it.

This was _definitely_ feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Jim-bursts-into-Bones'-room-in-a-suit scene was the first scene I wrote for this fic, the first scene I wrote for the Trek fandom, and by far the most self-indulgent thing I have ever written. It has, fortunately, gone through several rewrites over the past couple months, but given that it contains lyrics from Justin Timberlake (ft. Jay-Z)'s "Suit & Tie", Big & Rich's "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy", and references Lauren Alaina's "Georgia Peaches" (which, please do imagine Bones singing that in the shower), I still feel inclined to apologize for it. But then also I don't, because this whole fic (and series? we'll see) was built around it. So it turned out for the best.
> 
> I made choices about who was primarily topping in this chapter for good character-building reasons that I couldn't fit in the fic itself. Jim needed to be given a reason to stay interested, because, generally speaking, he doesn't; and Bones needed a strategy to keep Jim interested, because he knew this about Jim, so he took it upon himself to make sure of it. But then I was faced with the weird trope of "everyone wants exactly the same thing and no one ever has any hangups," which I hate a lot because that's not a real circumstance, so then there was this scene that reflects my headcanon that Jim's dick is a frankly unreasonable size, which was also a fic I have since read that I cannot locate and did not intend to plagiarize. 
> 
> Finally, just as I firmly believe two fit men in their twenties who are under tremenous stress; are dealing with difficult personal histories; and are trying to process feelings neither one of them are sure they want -- would pretty infrequently have the sort of "sweetheart" sex I see portrayed a lot of the time (nothing against it, mind you), so do I firmly believe they switch like fucking gangbusters after this man-moon of sorts, so if you're not here for that -- I'm sorry. Stay tuned for more switchy, gritty sex. Or skip it if you're here for the sad feels. Stay tuned for more of those, too.


	4. June-August 2256

They made an agreement early on: When the uniform is on -- and that went for either one of them -- it was _professional touching only._

Leo had initially thought this would be a piece of cake. He tended to get lost in his work, after all, and knew Jim tended to do the same, so he did not think there would necessarily be a time when he was frustrated by an inability to touch Jim, particularly given how much they tended to do so outside of work hours. But Jim had a strangely compelling way of inviting touch that tended to give Leo trouble from time to time -- and to be honest he wasn't sure why he hadn't been expecting problems in that respect in the first place, given Jim's _insufferable insolence_.

Sometimes, for example, when walking around the Academy, Jim would turn to face Leo in excitement while talking, walking backward without looking behind him. And it was easy enough when he was annoyed with Jim’s inability to realize that there were _people in the halls_ and that he couldn’t just _walk backward_ like that; he’d grab Jim casually around the torso with one arm and throw him to the side to prevent him from running into people, and that was satisfactory enough for them both. 

But there were the other times, when Leo was genuinely amused by Jim’s enthusiasm, that he wanted to reach out and touch Jim just to feel the electricity run through him. Leo tended to be generous with half-smiles in these moments, distant enough to be mistaken for professional while he and Jim both knew their rarity; and it was on these occasions, when Jim noticed Leo’s fond reaction and was grinning broader in kind, that Leo had caught himself with a hand half-raised, moving to take hold of Jim more intimately, to feel his heat, his blood pumping, the workings of his musculature as he babbled on enthusiastically.

Leo always caught himself before he made contact and tended to drop the hand without further incident; but these were not the only moments Leo found he had difficulty with. It was harder still when Jim was tense about something -- when worried, overworked, angry, or just plain tired -- and Leo wanted to rub his neck, or grab Jim’s forearm alongside his own, or offer _some_ gesture that told Jim he was supported. But he knew how that would betray their level of intimacy; and as advanced as Starfleet was now from where it had started, they still had rules about conflicts of interest that proved to interfere with training or job performance, and neither Leo nor Jim wanted to risk separate assignments in the future by displaying their relationship openly while doing anything remotely related to Starfleet.

They both had different ways of coping with this necessary, _annoying, restrictive_ agreement. As someone usually much more touchy-feely than Leo was generally speaking, Jim made no attempt to curb contact itself -- though he did seem to have to censor himself a bit in terms of what sort of touch connected. Leo got a lot of shoulder slaps of the same variety as those that had arisen before they’d started their sexual relationship, though now they sometimes had a surreptitious squeeze thrown in, or a lingering sweep across the flank of his shoulder blade. Other times, Jim abrasively grabbed his arms, intensely 'commiserating' with Leo while also copping a feel of his triceps and blinking provocatively as he stepped away (only James T. Kirk could manage to _blink_ provocatively, Leo thought); and in these moments Leo remained as impressed with Jim's self-restraint as he was with his own.

Leo, by contrast, preferred not to touch Jim at all while in uniform, if he could help it. He found the feeling of intellectual intensity very useful at work, and Jim was soothing by contrast. Though all too happy to step in when Jim needed physical restraining from some unnecessary fistfight or from echoing the path of a passing beauty, Leo for the most part resigned himself to frustration, and accordingly made a greater volume of annoyed comments to compensate.

So Leo was relieved -- sort of -- when their three weeks of leave started in August. The two months preceding had been sparse on the contact, with entire weeks passing without either one of them seeing the other, due solely to the intensity of their workloads of the condensed semester--

("And _why_ ," Leo had asked one night, having collapsed into bed after a 20-hour day to find Jim already there and trying unsuccessfully to blink awake from what had clearly been something of an accidental nap, "are we doing this in three years again?"  
"Enterprise," Jim had mumbled into the pillow. "Maiden voyage. Destiny."  
"I'll destiny you," Leo had replied against Jim’s neck, lids of his eyes falling heavy and hard as he tugged Jim against him; and Jim had snort-laughed his way back into sleep.)

\--and he knew Jim was feeling the strain of not seeing Leo much. For his part, Leo was okay, never unhappy to throw himself into work -- in fact, he was not whatsoever making the situation better by choosing this semester to get back into the addenda associated with his PhD research. He knew perfectly well what that meant for his availability and preoccupation. 

But something shattered in his chest every time that flash of rejection graced his features when they passed each other in the hall and Leo had to mumble a vague and muffled disclaimer around the bagel he'd stuffed into his mouth about where he was going and how he'd catch up with Jim soon. He thought about inviting Jim back to the lab with him some nights, but thought he knew how that would end (which was to say, not with work), so he offered the frankly inadequate compensation of giving Jim at least one entire evening per week.

But even then -- and, yes, he knew very well what a colossal asshole he was being, with Jocelyn's voice chiding him about his shit work habits resonating constantly in his head -- he’d still been distracted. In the weeks following the completion of his first surgical internship in May, his old PhD work had taken him completely over, and for weeks he'd sometimes stop mid-sentence while he and Jim sampled the whiskey in the next string of bars to hurriedly pull out a pen and draw some diagrams on the nearest cocktail napkin (to Jim’s joint fascination and annoyance).

To at least try to keep it inclusive, Leo had spent some time explaining the basic premise of his research to Jim -- the nanite could record and transmit step-by-step information of an autoimmune response to the cell it occupied in more detail than a microscopic cellular observation would allow -- and Jim, bless him, kept up with the explanation easily. But Jim was not geared toward organic science and didn’t have the drive or the training that Leo did on the topic, so he mostly listened while Leo talked, which was not generally something Jim always did very well for long.

(Jim had seemed particularly interested in the details of exactly how the nanites functioned, both in Leo’s research and generally, which had initially made Leo mildly suspicious; but given Leo’s general absence of late, it was hard to tell if Jim was putting significant investment into the topic or if he was just trying to keep Leo talking and present.)

And then even the Friday night ritual had begun to disappear before Leo even knew it was happening. It was clear that Jim had noticed Leo’s gradual reclusiveness, and likewise evident that neither of them quite knew what to do about it. This was never starker than after Leo’s first beg-off from a Friday, which had earned him a mock-argument that Leo knew was couched in legitimate anxiety about desertion on Jim’s part. He’d done his best to make it clear that he wasn’t trying to use his work ethic in an attempt to create _intentional_ distance with Jim; and despite generally failing to be present in his quarters when Jim came by at 2100h on Fridays through June and July, it was Jim’s bed Leo found himself most often sliding into at 0200h or 0300h, often unintentionally stabbing himself in the ribcage with the PADD Jim had abandoned for sleep and exhaustedly placating Jim’s sleepy whimpers of disorientation with a rumbling “shut up, would you? I’m trying to sleep,” and light, slow, whiskey-tinged kisses. 

Saturday’s work, however, tended to be limited to a normal eight-hour window, and Leo usually made a point of being showered and pre-liquored well before 2100h when Jim burst ever-punctually through his door, even in the midst of his worst spells of indefatigable workaholism. But after one particularly infuriating week when an entire batch of nanites had failed to transmit any information at all for no discernible reason, Leo had been determined to find out why at the cost of his awareness of time. He’d stayed in the lab until past 0600h into Saturday morning, noting the hour with a reluctant start only when exhaustion had outweighed his adrenaline; and though he’d forced himself back home and gained a few hours of restorative unconsciousness, he was caffeinated and back in the lab by 1100h, even his dreams permeated with conspiracies about nanites keeping secrets.

Leo had worked on through that Saturday, too, with steady, uninterrupted concentration -- until unusual movement spotted out of his periphery had finally forced his sphere of focus to crash down around him. He'd blinked himself back into the world and strode briskly to look through the tiny window into the corridor to see if he could catch sight of whatever had flashed past -- and to his surprise caught Jim's eye as he'd doubled back through the hall and honed in on the sign beside the door denoting Pathology Lab 3. 

Leo had hurriedly gone to enter his authorization code, a knot tying in his stomach as the pressurized door had slid swiftly open to reveal Jim’s serious expression; and Jim had looked Leo up and down before nodding curtly, apparently satisfied that Leo was not in grave peril. 

Leo, meanwhile, had furrowed his brow and taken a moment to settle on which incredulous expression to sputter. 

“How in the hell did you even get _in here_?” he demanded eventually.

“Got the codes,” Jim provided evenly. “Not important. You gonna be in here all night?”

A quick glance at the display at the nearest station told him that it was already 2300h -- significantly past the hour Leo usually met Jim. He also realized with a sinking sensation that he had failed to show up at Jim’s quarters the night prior; and that, he confirmed with a touch at his pockets, his comm was still sitting on his bedside table, undoubtedly riddled with a dozen obnoxious unread messages from Jim Kirk.

Leo felt his expression default to sorrow. “I, uh,” he began inadequately. His inclination was, in fact, to finish this last trial -- he wasn’t about to leave an in-progress experiment partway through, after all -- but there was no way of telling how long that would take, and that made his next sentence one he didn't want to deliver.

But Jim had seemed to take his silence to be sufficient, and he again nodded curtly, jaw clenching, before striding wordlessly away.

“Jim,” Leo called, expecting Jim to stop at least long enough for him to sputter an apology; but Jim continued down the hall without a second look. Leo frowned deeply and started after him. “Jim!” But Jim turned a corner and was gone, and Leo wasn’t prepared to stray far from a lab full of active nanites. 

He cursed loudly and returned inside, resigning himself to finishing the damned experiment he no longer felt was so terribly pressing; but to his surprise, a sharp rap at the door twenty minutes later had again revealed Jim Kirk, this time holding a large sandwich. 

“I know you’re not supposed to have food in here,” Jim began evenly, “but fuck that noise, Bones. You look like ass.”

Leo blinked heavily as he accepted the sandwich. “Jim, I--”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m going out. Try to get some fucking sleep at some point tonight, okay?” 

Jim roughly pulled Leo’s head down toward his chest and planted an annoyed kiss on the top of his head before turning to leave; but Leo caught him deftly by the arm and pulled him back while sliding the sandwich onto the nearest available surface. 

“I’m not finished,” he snarled.

Jim blinked with cynical evenness and steadied. “Okay.”

And after a tense moment it Leo who was the first to break the no-touching-while-in-uniform rule, one hand curling around Jim’s back while the other wound its way into his hair. Leo pulled Jim against him and walked him backward against the nearest wall, and Jim held his hands briefly askance with surprise at the gesture; but he soon nestled his fingers into the groove of Leo’s spine, his shoulders relaxing into the kiss that Leo impressed upon him as Leo spread one hand against the wall to steady them. 

Leo kept Jim pinned against the wall with his own weight as he took Jim’s lower lip gently between his teeth, running his tongue across it as he sucked it further into his mouth, drawing a faint noise from within Jim’s lungs that convinced him he’d made his point. “You’re not gonna be rid of me, kid,” Leo growled coarsely once pulled away, and he pressed his forehead against Jim’s while holding their hips flush together, breathed slow and deep, skimmed his lips over Jim's without initiating a kiss, and willed Jim to believe that someone -- that he -- could stick by him for a while.

Jim’s hands clenched and unclenched in Leo’s uniform, his apprehension reflecting a profound conflict between doubt and hope. “Okay, Bones,” he rasped eventually, the phrase lacking its usual lilting mockery. Leo registered with a flinch that Jim tended to use this particular verbalism when he wasn’t prepared to take Leo remotely seriously, and his brow knitted against Jim’s forehead. He slid his free hand against the back of Jim’s neck, thumb settling behind the crook of Jim’s ear, and kept on pressing on and on against him in the hopes that proximity could convince him.

Eventually Jim’s hands found Leo’s hips and guided him gently backwards, just far enough so he could move out from under him. “Nanites await,” Jim reminded him with a failed attempt at levity, voice low, lips flush and half-smile heavy with dolefulness; and after resting a last affectionate hand on Leo’s flank, he turned to leave. 

Leo had let him go that time, weight settling solidly in his stomach as he watched Jim turn the corner of the corridor, his hands shoved in his pockets -- and with that it was decided: 

Leo would take a fucking break from his research. 

It was not lost on Leo, after all, that he was repeating history, sacrificing his closest relationship for the sake of his scientific ambition and drive for completion. Leo’s problem, he realized, was this: when there was a scientific problem that both grabbed his attention and required a solution, _he_ had to be the one to solve it. Not his assistants or techs; not some other pathologist while he slept or paused for a break. With that one glaring exception, it had always had to be him. 

And though Jim was different than Jocelyn in that he was similar to Leo when it came to problem-solving -- which was to say, hands-on to a fault -- that fact still clearly wouldn’t prevent the eventual disintegration of a good thing that was likely to occur unless Leo could strike a better balance.

All of this had contributed to the reason for Leo’s apprehension about the upcoming break -- the 'sort of' that kept him from looking well and truly forward to it. He’d decided, in the spirit of getting as far away from his work as possible to avoid the compulsion to return to it, to head back to Georgia for a few days. His father’s old house, in Leo’s legal possession since his passing, was surely in terrible disrepair -- it hadn’t exactly been sturdy when he’d stayed there last, over a full year ago by now -- and Leo hoped to put in the minimal amount of work needed to get it into good enough shape to sell. There was nothing left for Leo in Georgia anymore, and he sure as shit hated reliving the past. If there was a time to get rid of the old manor … 

Well, he reasoned -- it wasn’t as though there would be a better opportunity down the road.

So it was with this in mind that Leo set the stage, tapped into some former shadow of himself and tried for something that might’ve passed for a romantic gesture in some unfathomable practical circle. Fancying himself a bit of a Jim Kirk, he made the arrangements on the last day of exams -- a Friday -- and finished putting his affairs in order with just enough time left in the evening for a drink before the events would be set in motion. 

Bourbon in hand, he sprawled in a nearby chair and revelled in the completion of his first year at Starfleet Academy as he stared emptily at his packed bag.

Right, then. This was happening.  
It was time.  
Was it time? Would it ever be time?

Leo drank quickly.

But he hadn’t had enough time to pour a second, with some bizarre bustling in the corridor catching his attention quite a bit earlier than he had expected; and after a pause that was palpably awkward, Leo heard a knock at his door.

“Good lord, now he knocks?” he asked the room, then kicked his legs off from his desk and opened the door with a single cocked eyebrow intended to denote suspicion. “Can I help you?” he intoned, deadpan.

Jim stood at the other side, a packed duffel bag in one hand, arm bent at the elbow as he faux-read a piece of paper. “ _Bring me!_ ” he half-yelled, grin miles wide, eyes glinting with anticipation. “Bring me where, Bones?”

“C’mon, Jim boy,” Leo drawled, painting his accent on thick as he hoisted his own bag over his shoulder. “We’re going to Atlanta.”

\-----  
\-----

Jim was over the fucking moon.

It wasn’t that he’d _doubted Bones_ or anything. It was probably more accurate to say that he’d spent a not insignificant amount of time lately wondering what the fuck was going on with Bones. Totally different vibe. To be honest, if he hadn’t systematically used his teeth to strip his bottom lip of skin and suddenly started to feel inexplicably angry at _Bones_ whenever one of his other, uhm, _extracurriculars_ cancelled on the days Bones was bound to be in the lab, he might’ve thought he was dealing with such casual wondering very well. And yet--

“Your lip just split open,” Uhura had told him once it started bleeding once during an attempt to articulate a particularly lengthy word in Klingon in Xenolinguistics.

“Thank you,” he’d said thickly, tongue and teeth brushing their way over the open gash. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Well, what the hell is wrong with you,” she’d asked. It was barely a question, and her arms had been crossed over her chest to help buffer the concern away from any actual internal organs. She switched into flawless Vulcan as she said, “It doesn’t look like the result of a fight, so I can only assume it’s related to that healer of yours.”

“Oh my god,” he’d replied in Standard. “Can you go back to pretending you don’t know me?”

“Is it his working habits?”

“I am serious like death,” he’d replied, in halting Klingon this time.

“Fine,” she’d said lightly after a pause. “Just _stop_ ,” and her hand had come up to his face, one thumb prying his lip easily out from between his teeth, “with that. It’s driving me up the wall.”

And Jim had glared and pouted and an hour later lightly headbutted Uhura’s shoulder only to ask sulkingly if she’d talked to him; and she’d looked something between smug and sympathetic and said she’d passed him in the halls and that he’d looked happy and busy and that Jim should worry less. 

But if Jim _was_ worried -- which he wasn’t -- he wouldn’t have been worried about whether or not Bones was still into him, anyway, because that would be _ridiculous_. It was clear by the way Bones was when he actually found the time in his _busy schedule_ to slink into Jim’s room at some ungodly hour and hold Jim as tight against him as he ever did, rumbling something distantly affectionate in his ear, that he was just as interested in Jim as he’d ever been. It was just that they were talking less, and they were _definitely_ fucking less, and that was … different than other scenarios. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything except that Bones was just physically not around. So that hypothetical worry would have truly been silly. Really.

Jim’s lip, to Uhura’s weekly and inexplicable chagrin, never healed through July.

And it definitely hadn’t been as though Bones had been _completely absent_. Nevertheless, Jim had been unable to kick the sneaking suspicion that Bones suddenly wanted nothing to do with him. Even in those moments when Jim had succeeded in dragging Bones off to a bar, Jim hadn’t been totally certain of his psychological presence; and he wondered pretty systematically, in a way that was _totally not projecting_ , if Bones was doing the same thing that Jim himself always did, which was to say, freaking out about a repeat fuck. Which was also probably ridiculous, because Bones wasn’t like that; but maybe, all of a sudden, that wasn’t totally clear to Jim anymore, and he was having a time of it talking himself out of something he had absolutely zero evidence about. 

And telling himself he was being ridiculous about every insecurity that popped into his head didn’t, despite his renewed efforts to kill all the negative feelings he’d ever felt, prevent it from occasionally -- fleetingly -- feeling like his breath stopped in his chest when Bones didn’t show up when or where Jim had expected him to. So there was that factor. It was hard not to think something weird was happening when even his body reacted to Bones’ absence.

But then at the eleventh hour, Bones had swept in with something that even resembled a _gesture_ , packing a bag for him that had sensibly included scads of lube and leaving him a note saying remarkably little in his usual laconic way; and even if Jim hadn’t totally believed it until he actually found Bones in his quarters and actually seen a bag of his own tossed at his feet, he’d had to cede that this made it pretty clear that Bones was mostly hardworking and not just totally avoidey.

Initially it had seemed like Bones, too, had been reasonably excited about the prospect of leaving his work behind for a while. They’d hailed a private shuttlebus on account of their luggage, scant though it was; and Jim had only been permitted to ask about a dozen obnoxious questions before Bones had pressed his clearly affectionate smirk against Jim’s lips, which had inspired an impressively public make-out session in the backseat.

But in spite of an ongoing comparative cheerfulness in the time leading up to the shuttle ride, Bones became badly subdued once they landed -- and it couldn’t have been the hangover. Bones had booked a 2am shuttle, which had given them ample time to get shitfaced in a bar close to the shuttle bay -- “To combat your aviophobia,” Jim had plied as he’d ordered the third round, which had decidedly not been the last -- and given that Bones had totally passed out shortly after they’d climbed aboard, Jim figured that it had actually been a pretty clever ploy, even if it had meant that they’d had to take a couple of hours to sober up and caffeinate in the shuttle bay cafe after landing.

But Bones had woken up from said nap in some kind of fugue of anxious energy, saying almost nothing as they located their rental vehicle and loaded it up with their things -- remaining equally silent as he’d driven them out of the shuttleport along roads he was clearly well familiar with.

“Nice town, Bones,” Jim had remarked now and again, or “I thought it’d be more old-timey” -- comments intended to break the fog Bones was hiding behind. But at best, he’d grunted in reply, his eyes scanning altogether too quickly across the buildings as though searching for something, sporting a look Jim recognized all too well but usually only saw on his own face.

“Contain yourself,” Bones had barked eventually after Jim had stuck his head eagerly out the window at a stop light in order to take in his surroundings more completely. “We’ll come back into town later, take a better look around then.”

“Booones,” Jim had crooned. “New city.”

“Old city.”

“Cool city.”

“Barely functioning hub of post-bureaucratic servitude.”

Jim had grinned widely at Bones. “Such resplendent acerbic tones have brought me to Georgia,” he’d said with the kind of sultry emphasis that betrayed his mockery altogether too well; and though Bones had given him the kind of sidelong glance that a smirk might’ve ordinarily accompanied, he still only managed to clench his jaw in reply.

Jim gave up altogether on trying to get Bones to lighten up after that, opting to remain silent and stare happily out the window until he realized the turns and sideroads led them into increasingly suburban territory. Several miles of swelteringly cheerful late-morning estates later, they finally turned onto a road at a much reduced speed that perked up Jim’s attention instantly.

The road might’ve been gravel once, but now was mostly dust. Through the cloud that suddenly furled up before them Jim could see a sizable white manor towering before them, framing a vast lot before them that was covered in slopes of stubbornly long but browning grass. The grounds looked as though they might’ve been regal if kept up; as they were, Jim drew the analogy of a particularly handsome and successful person having let themselves go, but in the form of a lot.

“We stopping somewhere first?” Jim asked, interpreting the regality as commercial as he took in the trees that tastefully smattered the lawn. They showed signs of former grooming in spite of their present state of overgrowth; but Bones’ gaze barely flickered over, his hand gripping the gearshift to the point of whitened knuckles. 

Jim returned to scanning his eyes over the details of the land until Bones felt it became him to answer the question; but suddenly, as his gaze passed over the edges of the road -- shit, _driveway?_ \-- as it sloped ahead of them, Jim clued in. 

“Oh my God, Bones. _Bones._ ” One hand scrabbled blindly at Bones’ arm. “Is this your _house?_ ”

He only glanced at Jim and clenched his jaw in reply.

“Holy fucking shit.” Jim stared at Bones with utter seriousness for several steady seconds, his stomach inexplicably unsettled. The shadow of the trees fell over the vehicle, leaving the manor to flicker with an odd surreality behind them; Jim struggled to peer at the house more closely, leaning to the windscreen and turning his gaze upward to its roof. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Welcome to McCoy Manor,” Bones intoned despondently.

“McCoy Manor. Fuck me.”

Bones appeared to contemplate the suggestion. So he wasn’t so far inside his own head as to lose all sense of levity.

“Jesus Christ. Look at it. It’s six miles tall. You _own_ this thing?”

“Family heirloom,” he grunted. 

“Hell. This place is the real McCoy.” And then, despite himself, Jim turned to Bones and grinned stupidly.

“I regret you,” Bones muttered, attempting and failing at indignation.

“I’m being serious. This is fucking...” Jim juggled his hands in search of the words.

“I know.”

“Shit, Bones. I suspected you had money tied up somewhere, but I never imagined...” He gestured at the house as though it finished his sentence just by standing there.

Bones glanced incredulously at Jim as though to ask why in the hell Jim thought he had money tied up somewhere, but he seemed to decide he didn’t need to know and returned his gaze to the driveway in silence, jaw clenching furiously.

“You’re dreading this whole thing,” Jim remarked aloud.

“Yup.”

“Why?”

The car slowed to a halt and Bones aggressively pulled at the handbrake. “It’s worse on the inside,” he said, glancing ruefully at the front doors.

Jim watched him as he stared, as he glanced down at the handbrake upon which his hand still rested, as he looked at Jim. “If you want, we can put the car back in gear and … drive,” Jim offered tentatively, his own heart beating faster as Bones’ air of anxiety palpably intensified. “Somewhere. Anywhere. Miami. Canada. Cuba.”

“We can’t drive to Cuba.”

“We can try.”

“I’d rather not drown in the Atlantic.”

“Really?”

“It’s a close contest, but yeah.” He cracked open the door to the vehicle and let his eyes fall over Jim, as though taking in something he liked before forcing himself to face something he didn’t; then, with a deep breath, Bones legged his way out of the car.

Jim followed and committed himself to fall back as Bones took the time he needed to approach the structure. It was clear the manor needed work as much as did the yard -- the paint peeled on the supports, the wood creaking with telltale rotting as he followed Bones slowly up the stairs and onto the porch. “Place has character, I’ll give it that,” Jim muttered as he noticed the swing sitting, long abandoned and covered in webbing, beside the door. “You just leave that there?” he asked, gesturing.

Bones only gave him a steely stare and shouldered the door open, leaving the keys hanging from the doorknob. “Let ‘em take it,” he muttered, pausing to steel himself before crossing the threshold inside.

The entrance hall was awe-striking. Vaulted ceilings towered above them two storeys higher, white pillars reaching from the middle of the room; a curving staircase stared at him from afar as it opened up in the far wall. It was -- there was no other term for it -- magnificent.

“You call this worse?” Awestruck, Jim stepped forward, turning around to find Bones as he receded into the corner. “This is fucking incredible, Bones.”

“It’s extravagant,” he grunted, his arms folding over themselves; and Jim had to cede him that point. Bones was, generally speaking, a man of simple tastes, demanding only of his day-to-day existence unsynthesized foodstuffs and a comfortable bed. This place was way too much; it didn’t fit, and Bones looked decidedly out of place within it.

They stood with their contrasting attitudes at the grandeur that opened before them for several minutes, neither of them knowing what to do next. All Jim knew was that he was keen to keep Bones talking, to help him through whatever shit he was fighting through. “Did you and Jocelyn ever live here?” he asked eventually, peering into the door against the right wall and finding it opened into a beautiful and well-lit kitchen that boasted a wealth of granite countertops Jim imagined had once been well-used.

“Hell, no," and Bones sounded relieved for something to say as Jim’s mouth fell open. "Our apartment was halfway between the university and the city center. My Pa was altogether content to commute ninety minutes each way to work every day, but I never had that kind of patience.”

Jim laughed at the image of Bones white-knuckled and yelling, alone in his car in a traffic jam. “You get so Southern out here,” he observed, slinking to the door that opened into a bathroom in the back corner.

Bones gave a noise of uncertainty. “I feel as Southern as I ever am.”

“You do not. Listen to you.” Jim deepened his voice in a mockery of Bones’. “Ah feel as Sutherrrn as ah ever aymmm.”

“Hush, now, Jimbo. Y’hear?”

Jim grinned broadly. "Calm your Southern tits, please. I'd like to see the entirety of this monstrosity before we christen it with orgasms."

And there, finally, was a half-smile from Bones, though it retreated quickly back into troubled pensiveness as Jim peered into the study.

“Come on,” Jim said eventually, hitching his head toward the staircase. “You gonna give me a tour or what?”

“I get the impression you would just leap ahead of me anyway, so I’ll tell you what. You go exploring and I’ll trail behind to be sure to answer all your obnoxious, prying questions.”

Jim grinned widely and bounded up the stairs, leaving Bones to sigh after him.

It unfolded as Bones had predicted, with Jim darting in and out of rooms, asking what each had been used for. The Master was an absurdly sized room, with a large and comfortable-looking bed featuring in centre; wardrobes, chairs, and bookshelves graced the rest of the wallspace, while elegant curtains framed the windows. Smaller bedrooms showed potential for a much larger family taking up occupation, one functional guest room giving way to rooms housing mostly hobby equipment, by now covered in sheets; books hung piled forgotten in corners.

“Mom’s office,” Bones had muttered once he’d found Jim with his nose buried in a dusty old humanities book in a room with a gorgeous mahogany desk that seemed better kept than the rest of the house. “Gets the best light in the house. Her books never stayed contained to this room, obviously, but every once in a while Pa would do a roundup and bring them all back here. Couldn’t bear to after she died. They gather dust in all corners of this place now.”

Jim blinked around the room. “And you just left this room like this for ten years?”

“What else am I going to do with it?”

Jim stared at Bones has he leaned against the doorframe and peered around the room, looking young and old at the same time, the book laying forgotten in Jim’s hand; and after a moment he snapped it shut and poked at Bones until he backed out into the hallway. “Where’s your room?”

“I usually sleep in the Master now.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Bones smirked and pointed around the corner. Jim went in that direction and began pushing doors open, revealing empty rooms and rooms used for storage that seemed never to end -- until finally he came across the telltale signs of male adolescence, 

“A telescope?” Jim crouched and took a good look at it; from what he could tell, it was hardly a shit model, either -- a strong investment, probably a gift from some holiday past. “A _telescope_ , Bones.” He straightened and stared at Bones, slack-jawed. “This, from the man who hates space.”

Bones’ expression changed into something that might’ve been a smile in another time, in another place. “Attitudes change, Jim.”

“I’ll say. I bet you took crazy notes. Where is that shit? I want to know what teenaged Bones thought about the cosmos.”

“No,” Bones said quietly.

Jim stared at him, waiting; but that seemed to be all Bones had to offer on the subject. “Just no? That’s it?”

“You won’t find any notes.”

Jim blinked. “Okay,” he said, reluctantly, then pulled his eyes away from Bones’ inscrutable expression as he leaned down to look through the lens. “I haven’t seen one of these in a long time, Bones. Digitized enough to tell you what everything is and how they’re classed but not enough so that you don’t have to do some of the work yourself. I could see how you would--”

But Bones was gone; Jim was talking to himself.

Huffing, Jim gave the room a lingering look, long enough to take stock of yet another bookshelf and armchair, covered in science texts and science fiction books in equal measure; then, vowing to return, Jim crept back around the corner through to the staircase, finally deciding that Bones had crept back downstairs and opting to follow suit.

Jim found Bones back in the study, his hands shoved in his pockets as he stood in the middle of the room. He took in his surroundings as though they were a great monument he’d never seen before: slow, calculated, inscrutable expression blanketing his features. Jim crossed his arms and leaned in the doorway, opting only to watch until Bones’ gaze fell slowly to his face; and he wore a distant grief in behind a neutral wonderment at Jim’s appearance, as though time had collided in on itself to remind him of altogether too much at once.

“Pa’s study,” he said. His voice was quiet but large, and it filled every corner of the room. “I always expect it to change. It never does.”

“Good space,” Jim replied.

“He sure liked it. My mom used to call it his other wife.”

Jim huffed gentle laughter and hitched one foot over the other as he watched Bones stroll slowly through the room.

“It’s odd how old-world he could be sometimes,” he said quietly. “We fought after mom’s death for about a year but once we reconciled there was nothing we wouldn’t talk about. Something happened. Something changed. He was less open when I was younger, preferred to hide himself away in here whenever he could. Mom would call it The Cave when she was annoyed about it.” His fists clenched in his pockets. “In his final years he’d ask to be left here for hours. I’d bring him a stack of books and he’d read away, happily as could be. But he always set them aside, after mom died. Especially after Jocelyn and I started having problems. I think he regretted not being more attentive when Mom was alive.” Bones’ eyes refocused on Jim, bright with nostalgia. “On the other hand she tended to have her own projects going on.”

“He made a lot of decisions in good conscience, Bones,” Jim reminded him.

“He--” Bones began; but then he stopped suddenly, leaned one hand against the ledge of the fireplace. “He asked for something different than what he got.”

“Neither of the stubbornest McCoys predicted just how stubborn McCoys could be. That’s not on you.”

“It is on me, Jim.”

“Okay, so it is. You honoured your dying father’s last wish to the fullest extent possible. How dare you.”

Bones’ knuckles whitened on the ledge; he stared at Jim altogether too openly.

Jim launched himself away from the doorframe and walked over to Bones, one hand snaking around his waist while the other coaxed support away from the fireplace. “They lived, Bones,” Jim muttered, pressing his lips and again against Bones’ neck. “That matters a lot more than the fact that they died.”

And if Bones gripped suddenly at Jim instead of the ledge to keep himself standing, that was fine with him -- even if the dimensions of his attempts at comfort took on a different dimension as Jim backed him up against the wall and pressed more pointed attentions against Bones’ skin.

“You’re incorrigible,” Bones muttered eventually, one hand buried in Jim’s hair.

“That’s why you love me, Bones,” he replied distractedly, setting his lips again over the thrum of the pulse in his neck; and Bones gripped Jim closer to him, breath catching in his throat for more reasons than Jim could keep track of; and he was suddenly unbelievably glad Bones had had the good sense to bring him along, now for an entirely new set of reasons.

\---  
\---

Leo was, quite frankly, in hell.

Not _the worst kind of hell_ , mind you, not like he was during the years leading up to his divorce -- but every aspect of his surroundings reminded him of those years, reminded him of what _the worst kind of hell_ felt like, and that was enough. Everything about the place -- the architecture, the artefacts, even the goddamn atmosphere -- reminded him of the days of his life that had been the hardest to get through, and that made these days, too, torturously slow in pace. He was forced to recall the idiom that time moved slower in the South; for Leo, that was entirely too true.

Specific rooms had their specific memories, and almost nowhere was safe. The study, for example, reminded him of the time his illness-riddled father had had to physically support him when he'd shown up at his door on that fateful March 7th and completely run out of energy after an embarrassingly weak knock at the door; reminded him of how David had had to half-drag Leo into his study, leaving him slumped in the chair nearest the door while he poured him a bourbon, waiting an hour with him until Leo was ready to talk; reminded him of how Leo had completely fucking broken down after three shattered sentences and woken up at dawn curled defensively up in the chaise in the corner while his father slept, sitting-up, in a chair near the fire, unwilling to leave him. It reminded him of how Leo still hadn't moved from the fetal position until David too had woken up, taken one look at him, disappeared, and come back twenty minutes later with a full plate of what his mother had called The Complete Georgian Breakfast ('The Complete' for short); reminded him of how he'd eaten two bites and been unable to get more down, how David had sat wordlessly with him for a few minutes and then eaten the rest for him with a sympathetic hand on his back; reminded him of how Leo had stayed well into the afternoon until he'd finally found it in him to get up and go home; reminded him of how it had taken three months for either one of them to bring up that evening again.

The bedrooms reminded him of the year following when Leo had spent every waking hour in this old manor that he wasn't at the lab, taking care of David unless he was trying to cure him, letting his marriage fall even more entirely to shambles in the process; reminded him of hours spent leaning over surfaces in his childhood bedroom trying to figure out what the fuck was happening to his life, trying to remember a time when things weren't shattering to pieces around him; reminded him of hours spent collapsed on his boyhood bed as pored over holos on the nights that the bourbon stream had been running strong, watching decade-old recordings of his long-deceased mother hurrying importantly around the house, doting after Leo in fleeting intervals between time spent poring over the research in her upstairs office or cooking unnecessarily extravagant meals for their tiny family -- which in turn reminded him of the terseness between David and 18-year-old Leo in the months that followed her death, the two of them no longer sure how to talk to each other without Eleanora's interjections, Leo quietly blaming David for reasons even he wasn't clear on and David at a loss for what to do about it. 

The porch, meanwhile, reminded him of the night Jocelyn had served him divorce papers; reminded him of the way he'd thrown his overnight bag aggressively down so hard upon it that the wood had creaked beneath it; reminded him of the way he'd stared the old vacant manor down and eventually opted simply to pull out the whiskey he'd picked up on his way there and set himself down on the porch swing his mother had so loved to occupy. It reminded him, too, of how he'd stared out over the sloping grass before him, taking swigs directly from the bottle and letting the bitter January air chill him to the bone until he was drunk enough to brave it inside, which had also been too drunk to find the keys in the depths of his bag; and it reminded him of begrudgingly sleeping in his car, now convinced he was hypothermic as he emptied his suitcase out on top of himself and used the irony of his freshly minted PhD diploma and the envelope stuffed full of divorce papers as a pillow.

The kitchen was its own beast in that it reminded him of Eleanora, but only dimly: the smell of her cooking, the tenacity of her smile, the way she had always called him 'Leo' while David had always called him 'Leonard' or 'Len'. It reminded him of the way Leo had insisted on being called 'Leo' exclusively after her death even though he had previously agreed with his father that he had never felt much like a 'Leo'; reminded him of the way their communication somehow became exponentially easier once David had agreed to call him by her nickname after all at dinner on the first Winter Solstice after Eleanora's death; reminded him of how Jocelyn had given a stifled sob in as he and David had reached across the table for the world's most awkward hug after half an hour of fighting on the subject, while his paternal grandparents and the entirety of his aunt Lucille's family awkwardly cut into their roast at the other end of the dining table -- 

\-- Reminded him of times when the biggest questions he had about himself were what name he wanted people to call him rather than whether he was a shitty partner, an inadequate pathologist, a failing surgeon, a murderer. And that was worse, somehow, remembering the times when things had been easier; it served as a testament as to how far he'd fallen in the years since, how deep the well of cynicism he'd dug himself now truly was.

Leo so very fucking much hated the past, all of it, good shit and bad; and here the past was everywhere, taunting him, throwing itself at him with every turn.

The only thing that made the whole thing tolerable was the one shining beacon of the present he'd brought with him: Jim.

Jim, by contrast, was having a _great_ time with Leo's past. Jim's prevailing tendency to turn everything to joy regardless of whether it was meant to be joyful was suddenly coming in extremely handy, serving to bring Leo out of his own head as necessary. Jim was, at the risk of getting overly poetical, a goddamn fucking sunbeam breaking through an overcast sky; and if he’d allowed Leo any time at all to think it over, he might’ve thought Georgia would’ve eaten him alive if he hadn’t brought Jim with him.

There had been the time, for example, on their second day in Georgia when Leo had been driving himself insane at the kitchen table, one hand clasped over the other's fist as it pressed against his mouth with the memories chasing after him following a late breakfast; and Jim, who had been inexplicably missing since Leo had woken up two hours prior, had suddenly begun laughing maniacally from deep within the house. 

Leo frowned abruptly and listened for a second, then set a hand over his forehead as he realized he must have been in the attic this entire time. "Jim!" he yelled, though three storeys separated them. "What the devil are you doing?"

"Bones!!" Jim shouted distantly, and thirty seconds of mad clamoring eventually yielded the man in front of him, covered in dust and panting ridiculously and looking thrilled to bits. "Look at you!"

He had an old holo frame in his hand, paused on some old picture of Leo from years ago. He wore a button-down that looked to be a size too big for him, and his hair hung too long around his face, most of it haphazardly tied back in a ponytail. He looked as though he hadn't shaved in five days, and his blue jeans sported grass stains; what looked like hurried notes to himself, in ink of all things; and a grungy hole in one knee. He was hanging in a doorway, bracing himself with bent fingers on either side and leaning forward. The smile on his face told him it must have been Jocelyn on the other end of the capture.

Leo cringed. 

“Magnificent,” Jim remarked seriously.

He hid his face in his hands. "It was a phase."

" _The best phase_." Jim looked as though he'd just won the lottery.

"Jocelyn thought so, too. She took a lot of holos that year. Second year of pre-med. Ugfh."

"Fucking genius woman. When do I get to meet her?"

" _Never,_ " he said emphatically.

"Want to hear how high your voice was back then?"

"No," he grumped; but Jim threw himself down in the chair beside Leo and hit the 'play' button on the frame with an eager grin.

"--Sure, Jocelyn," Leo-in-the-frame began, smirking arrogantly and a touch provocatively, "but I don't understand what you're finding so ridiculous."

"You. All of you. You are ridiculous."

"Well, all I feel is hungry. Want to go get burritos?" 

Jim tugged at Leo's arm and pointed at the frame with an unreasonable level of enthusiasm, and Leo reluctantly peered at it through splayed fingers. His voice wasn't higher as much as it was tighter, he noted, as though time and strain had not yet weighed it down; and it sounded far more Southern than was now standard, too, reflecting the fact that he hadn't yet had any reason to try to sound more neutral -- hadn't had any reason to hide his own history. 

He watched his younger self lean forward and back in the frame, his fingertips gripping precariously in the doorway, and he was shocked to realize how much he reminded himself of Jim. "Is there ever a time when you're not hungry?" Jocelyn continued off-frame, likewise sounding young, her voice doused with affection and candor; and Leo briefly closed his fingers over his eyes again, chest aching.

“I'm a medical student, damnit. I'm justified."

"You're in pre-med."

"Actually, I'm a full doctor."

"You are not a full doctor."

"I am in fact the chief surgeon at Atlanta General."

"Okay, Leonard."

"And the chief surgeon at Atlanta General is hungry for burritos."

Suddenly the picture shook, swayed, and turned; and Leo-in-the-frame and his mocking half-smile of tremendous arrogance slid away to be replaced by an _unbelievably_ young-looking Jocelyn, her hair unfathomably long and tumbling over her shoulders, tone of annoyance matched only by the glint of affection in her eye. "Patient suffers from delusions of grandeur and appears obsessed with sustenance," she reported clinically. "Secondary symptoms include overwork, undersleeping, and caffeine dependence. After meals the patient seems compulsively keen on playing frisbee until he develops shin splints from landing too hard in his birkenstock knock-offs. His faux-hippie projections seem to exist solely to convince other people that he is something other than the hardworking country doctor he is fated to become -- a fact of which he is in systematic denial."

"Ha, ha, very funny. You're no less in denial than I am on that one, sweetheart," Leo-out-of-frame said. "Burritos or no? I'm going now before my stomach devours itself out of spite."

"In the event of patient's sudden disappearance," she continued lazily as though he hadn't interrupted, "check local parks, eateries, and clinics, where he may be found sticking his nose where it doesn't belong and frantically taking notes on his person rather than on a PADD like a normal human being. If not found there, go on and check the Chattahoochie, for I might have completely lost it and thrown him in by then."

The frame shuddered and shook again, and Leo reappeared, having shoved his hands in his pockets and taken to shouldering the doorway instead. One easy (sandalled) foot hitched over the other, and what Jim called the Leonard McCoy Smile of Seduction was all over his face. "Darlin'," he began, voice deepening into a poor impression of his future self, "you wouldn't dare."

"Watch me," she challenged; and Leo-in-the-frame suddenly grinned, far more easily than he could have ever expected of himself, laughter pushing its way silently out of his nose as his gaze focused behind the capture with unmistakable fondness.

"Are you sure you're never going to introduce me to her?" Jim asked seriously as soon as the capture ended. "Because I need to know more. I need all the holos there are. I need the whole Bones history. I need to build a Bones Museum, immediately."

"Please don't," he groaned, collapsing himself onto the table.

"Bones," Jim began, and his voice sounded suddenly strained. "All of this is part of you. All of this is who you are. I -- Bones." He tugged at Leo's elbow. "Look. Look at you." Jim rested his head on Leo's shoulder, and Leo gave an annoyed grunt. "There's absolutely nothing in this capture not to -- like," he implored quietly.

The holo had remained on the kitchen table long after Jim had bounded back up the stairs, and Leo had stared at it for ten solid minutes before -- finally -- caving in and watching it again.

And then again. 

On the fourth and final time, he'd actually _laughed_ at himself, finally found the humour in it, the ridiculousness of his youthful demeanor finally _pleasant_ rather than a detraction from his character; and after another five minutes in which he'd allowed himself a moment of passing nostalgia, he climbed the stairs.

"What other antiquated artefacts are you finding up here?" Leo asked as he ducked his way into the attic; and Jim had grinned broadly and pointed to a whole stack of holos in the corner that Leo only _briefly_ considered 'accidentally' shattering. Instead, they’d spent the evening drinking too much and watching each of them over, Leo’s horror overtaken easily by Jim’s glee and the alcohol driving them to endless fits of laughter over Leo’s strength of personality in the years before med school.

Then there'd been the morning that followed, when he'd been unable to sleep under the presence of his demons. He’d slunk out to the porch to watch the sun rise, just as he had during his father's illness and bringing with him just as much heaviness; and twenty minutes later the handle of a mug was being slipped into his hand, Jim suddenly beside him and sipping his own coffee carefully, the scruff that was blossoming over his jaw aging him considerably as the light of dawn splayed over his face.

He stood with Leo in silence for some minutes, the only movements those of coffee-drinking or of Jim adjusting himself through his boxers; and when Leo finally blinked back to himself enough to give Jim a sidelong look, he was surprised -- though why, he didn't know -- to note the way he lit right up along with the rise of daylight, rays of sun catching hints of red in his facial hair and glinting off him like the force of life he was.

"You're fucking beautiful, you know that?" he said suddenly, the words spilling out of him before he could help it, voice still rough from morning disuse; and Jim looked up at him with delighted surprise, a shy and genuine smile pulling at his cheeks. Leo's lips quirked in kind as he returned to face forward, and suddenly he found he was enjoying the sunrise a lot more.

It was another five minutes before he acquiesced to vocalizing the old-world country tune that had been spinning through his head in the hour since he'd awoken:

" _Oh so that sun is risin’ up over cold steel tracks,_  
 _It’s passin’ sad face and ol’ burned out shack --_  
 _It’s windin’ me low and it’s windin’ me down;_  
 _It’s windin’ me lonesome faraway in another town._ ”

His own voice had surprised him with its sudden clarity, clearly loosened by the coffee and heartened by the warmth in his chest; and the last note seemed to spread over the lawn, settling into the blades of grass and clinging to them as the light cast over them.

Then, in betrayal of the melodic silence, Leo heard the sound of Jim's mug being set down.

"Okay," Jim said, voice wrenched and hollow. "I'm just gonna--" And suddenly he spinned down onto his knees in front of Leo, his hands wrenching at the elastic of Bones' pyjama bottoms; and in a split second, Jim's mouth was over his cock.

Leo was shocked into laughter, and he let his shoulders shake as he leaned his head back against the wall, dick twitching to life as Jim's lips pulled slowly back over him. "You're just gonna blow me on my porch," he finished for him, throat bared, voice straining.

Jim hummed his assent, and Leo felt himself lengthening with the slow stroke of the tip of Jim's tongue.

"All right, Jim boy," Leo resigned, stretching one hand lazily over his head as he sipped his coffee, enjoying the few moments of relative coherence he had left before his cock was fully erect and Jim would undoubtedly apply suction to the situation. "Whatever you like."

And then there had been the time, some days later, when the weather had broken enough to make Jim want to conquer the landscape. “I did landscaping for a summer in Colorado,” he said casually as they stood on the porch with their coffees, as had become an unspoken morning tradition. “Just let me fertilize the lawn and trim the trees a bit.”

“Lawn? Jim. It’s three acres at least.”

“So it takes a while. This place looks like a dude who forgot to shave for two years. Kinda like you right now, actually,” Jim finished, deadpan apart from a mischievous glint in his eye as he beckoned at Leo’s week-long scruff. 

Leo had only stared back with something resembling a passive homicidal inclination, and Jim’s lips had quirked into a hapless smile. “Fuck if I’m bothered about how much land there is, Bones. This is paradise.”

Leo had snorted dubiously, but had beckoned reluctantly in the direction of the shed; and Jim had set his mug down, shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, and idly wandered in that direction with a jaunty whistle that had brought Leo to grind his teeth at the sandpapery traction of Jim’s unbearable lightness of being rubbed against his own toiling outlook.

The shed remained unchanged from when Leo had last taken a look a year prior, apart from a new flock of spider webs and evidence of rodent activity. He let Jim in and leaned against the doorframe as Jim perused the shed with a slack jaw, his awe at the fantastic array of equipment within clearly stunning him momentarily into blissful silence.

“Fuck, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Jim gaped. “Simultaneously. What the fuck is up with this place? It’s like behind every door I learn something totally new about the McCoys that I would never have guessed in a billion years. Did someone die and leave you a gardening warehouse?”

“My great-great-granddaddy was big on plants,” he replied, unable to prevent affection from flooding his tone once met with Jim’s wonder. “Probably a few dead shrubs and eroded garden patches on the property to give ample evidence of the fact. Made something of a name for himself with it.”

“Shitting Christ.”

“All right there?”

“Bones, do you know what you have here? This is some landscaper’s wet dream.”

“Sure.”

“No, look -- outdated, yeah, but goddamn. No shortage of options here. Why do you even still have all this? I can’t picture you giving a damn about landscaping.”

Leo shrugged. “Something of a family legacy, I expect. Grandpa used to try his hand at it, but really grandma probably spruced things up after he went to work to make sure nothing died.” He felt his legs bringing him over to a particular shelf, where dirtied white gloves patterned with tiny flowers still sat. “Mom gardened, sometimes. Mostly when she needed to think.” He gestured around the shed. “Big shoes to fill.”

Jim watched him and nodded, keeping serious in acknowledgement of the significance of Leo’s choice to share all this with him. Then his eyes passed over a particular label, and he stepped forward to inspect it further.

“McCoy Weedkiller,” Jim muttered to himself. “McCoy Weedkiller?”

Leo smiled distantly. “Famous now. _Find it in gardening stores today!_ Or, at least some corporate equivalent. Great-great granddady Horatio sold its development rights for a helluva profit a century or so ago. Responsible for at least some portion of the money that went into this here haunted palace o’ mine.”

“McCoy Weedkiller!” Jim repeated happily. 

“Kills weeds,” Leo replied, deadpan. “Uses ‘nanotech,’ which at the time sounded fancy but actually just means there are proto-nanites that are programmed to carry the poison to exactly where it needs to be. Not making much money anymore, I wouldn’t reckon.”

“Bones!” Jim shouted, patting the bag. “I am surprised any member of your family needed to invent a weedkiller. I swear any weed would wilt under the withering gaze of any McCoy who willed it strongly enough to wilt.”

Leo snorted faintly. “Alas; the weeds grow equally stubborn down here.”

Jim smiled at him fondly as he made his way slowly around the rest of the shed; and then was suddenly looking at Leo with a stark honesty conjured out of nowhere. “Your mom wasn’t a McCoy,” he remarked, jaw set; and Leo’s eyes flitted again to where her flowery gardening gloves sat, untouched after a decade, on the shelf.

“No,” he confirmed quietly. “She was much more of a dreamer, really, than any McCoy allowed himself to be. She studied the humanities.” He gave a ghost of a laugh. “She never quite understood this house. But she tried. She did try.”

Jim nodded. “How’d she die?” he asked quietly, delicately enough to give Leo the opportunity to pretend not to have heard him.

But Leo’s mouth twitched in dreaded anticipation of Jim’s reaction, betraying him. “Shuttle accident,” he responded, low and even. “Structural failure. They think it was a piece of debris falling out of orbit from some old mission gone wrong. Collided, cracked the hull … ffft.” He made a suction noise and snapped his fingers. “A hundred people done in thirteen seconds.”

Jim stopped dead in his tracks and stared at him. His eyes flicked momentarily back toward the house, thinking of the telescope, Leo knew -- thinking of the notes that must have been taken but didn’t exist anymore, gone because Leo had burned them furiously in the immediate wake of Eleanora’s death. “It’s a legitimate phobia,” Jim repeated hollowly, using Leo’s own words from some months earlier.

Leo nodded slowly. “It does happen,” he rumbled.

Jim’s hands seemed to clench in his pockets as he stared Leo down, some profound process occurring within him that Leo couldn’t read; and then, just as Leo was about to ask if he was all right, Jim suddenly marched concertedly toward Leo, stopped just short of where he stood, and -- with a frustrated expression -- reached out and shoved Leo backward, hard enough to send him stepping frantically in off-balance.

He pulled himself to a stop in the doorway of the shed, totally unsure of what to do; but as he stared at Jim with surprise, he found laughter wrenching its way suddenly out of his lungs. “What in the hell was that for?” Leo asked, incredulous.

Jim clenched his jaw and stormed after him again as though to repeat the gesture; but Leo was ready for it the second time, and he stepped aside at the last minute to grab Jim into a headlock. But Jim’s momentum was too strong, and he’d somehow anticipated this anyway, Leo noticed, as he wrapped his arms around Leo’s torso and tossed him onto the ground as gently as was possible.

Leo grappled with Jim for several futile seconds, but it quickly became clear that Jim had the upper hand; and Leo wheezed a gentle “Jim,” as he grabbed at Jim’s wrists in an attempt to coax him to calm.

Jim breathed down at him, briefly frantic; then he wrenched his wrists free and slid his fingers between Leo’s, pinning his hands to the gently ground with a heaving chest as he frowned painfully and concertedly -- as though having absolutely no idea what was happening within him.

“Jim,” Leo said slowly, searching Jim’s eyes as a gentle smile grew. “Are you _having a feeling_?”

Jim gave a wailing grunt and planted his forehead down on Leo’s shoulder, his hands suddenly relocating to the fabric of Leo’s shirt and balling into fists. “I want to … bake you a pie,” came his strangled, muffled admission.

Leo huffed an incredulous breath of laughter as he tugged idly at Jim’s hair. “You want to _bake me_ a _pie_ ,” he repeated slowly. “Is this a euphemism?”

“No,” Jim whined immediately, then lifted his head suddenly. “Wait. Maybe. I don’t know what it would mean though. We’d have to make something up.”

“Let’s not. Please, go on.”

Jim set his chin back onto Leo’s chest and stared up at him with wide eyes. “You ... carry all this shit around with you, all the time, and you never say anything, and even when you don’t fucking make sense you still always make sense, and, learning about you, god, it’s stupid, I just …” His hands bunched again in Leo’s shirt as he struggled for words. “You like peaches. So if I baked you a peach pie I feel like this would be easier, or something, this big … Georgian process. Or if it wasn’t easier you would still at least have pie, and that would be better. Or maybe not better, I don’t fucking _know_ , Bones, but I -- wish that you had pie, and I wish that it … that it came from me.”

Leo stared, blinked; and suddenly his chest was seizing with the laughter that threatened to overtake him. “So what I’m hearing -- and, correct me if I’m wrong -- is that you shoved me repeatedly, and tackled me to the ground, so you could tell me that you … want to bake me a pie?”

He hadn’t quite succeeded at keeping the entertained waver out of his voice, and Jim suddenly tensed. “Yyyes, that -- is what happened,” he said hesitantly.

There hung between them a precarious second of tension in which not a muscle moved; and then Leo suddenly _bellowed_ laughter in deep, resonating guffaws that started from his centre and shifted outward in all directions. 

Jim was startled off-guard enough for Leo to suddenly shift the tides, to send them tumbling rapidly across the grass, turn over turn until they again landed firm; and Leo pressed his form down hard atop Jim, hands taut in his collar and lips hovering inches away. Laughter hung between them but had receded into heavy breathing, and Jim’s expression was wide open as he clenched and unclenched his hands familiarly in Leo’s shirt.

“Bones,” he said breathily, by now a word uttered as naturally as an exhale; and Leo wracked a hand aggressively through Jim’s hair as he set his forehead down against Jim’s.

“I want to bake you a pie, too, you goddamned _moron_ ,” Leo growled, voice low and and snarling and languishing in his throat, their lips crashing together as Jim’s limbs instinctually weaved themselves between his own; and there was absolutely no doubt in Leo’s mind that, even if this was hell, Jim’s presence definitely made hell a damn lot more tolerable.

\---  
\---

Jim had recently undertaken a new project.

Operation: Fuck Bones Silly was, tragically, going about as slowly as Operation: Bones, Lighten Up had half a year earlier -- which was to say that Bones’ resistance to getting Jim’s cock in his ass was not going away with anything resembling timeliness.

(“Are you still on about this?” Bones would ask without looking up from his PADD when they were back at the Academy.

“Yes,” Jim would reply concertedly, usually holding aloft plugs of varying sizes in one hand as he tried to make his argument. “This matters to me. You have historically enjoyed getting fucked, correct? You have historically enjoyed my cock, yes? Why not merge these marvellous realities into one awesome--”

“You’re not doing much to convince me, here,” Bones would reply, flipping the page on whatever the fuck he was reading that was ever-so-tragically rarely if ever cock-related; and Jim would sigh heavily and would _somehow_ usually, an hour later, wind up being the one stuffed with whatever ‘motivational tool’ he’d brought along with him, to his mutual joy and chagrin.)

“One day, Jim,” was always the take-away; and, admittedly, Jim could work with that. It wasn’t a no, and he was (working on becoming) patient and respectful, of course; and Bones was so oddly convincing with his stalling tactics what with his ongoing endeavor to undo Jim in as many ways as possible that it hadn’t been such a terrible burden to put this particular endeavor on the backburner for a while. So he’d waited, and maybe nagged a little -- and of course it hadn’t helped that Bones hadn’t been around much for the last while. All told, Operation: Fuck Bones Silly had gone concertedly nowhere fast.

What Jim hadn’t accounted for was that the circumstances had merely needed to be right.

Something about the humility that forced itself into Bones’ limbs every time he stumbled across an unexpected memory hidden somewhere within the Georgia house left Jim reaching for Bones in a different sort of way -- left Bones sagging beneath his touch in a different way than he expected. From their first moment in the study upon entry, Jim had taken it upon himself to reach out to Bones every time he seemed to trip over something that led him to this new and confusing mood of ‘smouldering anguish’; and the results were generally to Jim’s advantage.

Bones’ usual methods of effective resistance were strangely absent, all of a sudden, beginning with their encounter in the study. Jim’s advances were suddenly far more effective, with Bones winding up back against the wall with his head thrown back in tacit submission to Jim’s administrations to his neck and shoulders; and it wasn’t until Bones’ hand clenched against his back that he realized the last time he’d won this much control was months earlier, in the club on the day Jim had almost terminated their friendship in favour of the resolution of sexual tension, when he’d backed Bones up against the wall while he was lost in some grief he couldn’t articulate -- just the same as he was now.

“Hey,” Jim said suddenly, nipping his way more gently up to Bones’ ear. “Is this okay?”

“Uh. Yeah, Jim. Why?”

“You’re, uh. Having a rough time. I can back off.”

“ _No,_ ” Bones said, too quickly; and Jim grinned as he teeth outlined Bones’ ear before closing his lips over the lobe. “God, no. I, uh. Probably need this.”

“Need.” Jim paused and blinked to process. “Really.”

“It’s. Cathartic. Or, what have you.”

“Right.” Jim’s hands grasped suddenly, firmly at Bones’ hips, and Bones’ breath actually _hitched in his chest_ , to Jim’s elation. “Okay,” he said slowly, moving his mouth back to Bones’ while his hands acted quickly to undo Bones’ belt. “Getting the picture.”

And Jim Kirk, usual-casanova-except-in-case-of-Bones, actually wrenched a _whimper_ out of one Leonard McCoy when he finally came after a solid twenty minutes of his systematic undoing; and order was restored to the world.

“Bones,” Jim said grinningly, batting his hands away as they moved to return the favour and opting to wrap his own arms around Bones’ shoulders instead. “Don’t you dare.”

“Is this bruise on my neck ever going to heal?” Bones asked grumpily as he ran his hands over Jim’s back under the hem of his shirt.

“Depends. Are you going to regenerate it as soon as we walk out of this room?”

Bones’ silence was golden.

“I have this idea,” Jim said five minutes later as they hefted their duffels upstairs, “about your super-sexy melancholic doctor thing you have going on right now. Which is totally your prerogative, and I can dig it. I don’t totally know what shit went down here, Bones, but it seems pretty substantial, and it’s still creeping into you in kind of a massive way even though I just gave you a pretty decent handjob downstairs. So I’m thinking -- and feel free to try to deny it as usual -- that if we’re going to have any hopes of fighting these internal demons of yours, at all, we’re gonna have to fuck them out of you.”

Bones dropped his bag heavily down onto the floor and turned to face Jim with his hands on his hips, and Jim stared back, grinning widely and hopefully and trying not to read too far into the even stare Bones was bestowing upon him. “Gonna have to, huh?” he repeated slowly.

Jim suppressed a wending spiel of giggles and forced his voice into a low, serious tone. “It might be the only way.”

Bones had stared on, face completely unmoving in spite of Jim’s aggressively enthusiastic expression; but suddenly he gave a huff of resigned laughter before “Fine,” fluttered out from between his lips; and it was mere seconds before Jim had tackled him to the bed.

And if Jim had to guess as to why it had taken so fucking long to get Bones to give it up in this respect, it was probably because Bones was suddenly completely uncontrolled in a way Jim had never seen from him before. Jim knew that he himself could take a cock like a champ and that it tended, particularly when Bones was involved, to rock his world more often than not -- but as it turned out, Bones’ world could be equally rocked, with initial perfect silence eventually broken by cracking, helpless noises of abandon after ten minutes of gentle coaxing and stretching. Two of Jim’s fingers saw Bones go completely boneless (save one) against the bed, and the deep, halting, hitching sobs that accompanied the quick release upon the location of his prostate hit a level deep within Jim that he wasn’t sure he’d previously known existed.

“Okay,” Jim said slowly, nipping needily at Bones’ jawline after sliding down over his back. “Okay. That -- um. _Bones._ ”

“Do me a favour, Jim, and stop trying to narrate,” he graveled exhaustedly.

“I don’t think you understand.”

“I understand perfectly.”

Jim rutted awkwardly in the small of Bones’ back and whined distantly. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to be good to you, here, but all I want to do is that, over and over, forever, in, like, a big way, and also I want everything else. Do you know? Do you know what you’re like? I fuck people, a lot, right, but you just, you give yourself _over_ to it, god, why are you so, why am I just--”

Suddenly Bones had flipped him onto his back, his hand wrapping itself too tightly around his cock. “Unless you quit narrating, this hand doesn’t move,” he growled, setting his head against Jim’s shoulder, his bark altogether crueller than his still-closed eyes suggested should’ve been possible.

“Aaaand we’re back,” Jim wavered, working a hand into Bones’ hair and biting his lip until Bones loosened his hand enough for him to thrust into.

And that, incidentally, was the beginning of a fucking incredible couple weeks of getting Bones to _open up_ a bit. It had turned out that Bones had anticipated this turn of events and had packed accordingly, to Jim’s overjoy. Bones had also apparently taken mental notes on everything Jim had shown up with over the preceding several months and brought equivalents with them, and the opportunities for the stuffing and/or fucking the everloving bejesus out of Leonard McCoy were suddenly myriad and varied.

“You’re gonna take my cock before we go back to California,” Jim liked to promise him in moments when Bones’ knuckles were white with tension against the sheet, when the control had been edged out of him by degrees, when Jim had finally succeeded in leaving him tripping over the surface of an orgasm until his moans had transformed into airy whimpers. “Gonna fill you up, Bones. I can’t wait to watch you. I can’t wait to see if I can make you scream--”

But even then, incidentally, Bones very nearly did.

“Don’t think I don’t know that song you’re humming is called ‘Sexual Healing’,” Bones muttered once, already halfway to sleep after very kindly not even needing Jim to remove his hand from where he was holding Bones’ wrists to the bed before coming dramatically with two fingers hooked inside him, throat bared and moans rough and unending.

“I’m going to find where you’ve stashed your music library one of these days and learn it all just so I can annoy you better,” Jim threatened in reply, wiggling his feet until Bones cracked an angry eye in his direction.

“The next time you’re wondering why I prefer to tire you out rather than the other way around, reflect on this moment.”

“Okay, Bones,” he replied sing-songingly.

But as undoubtedly useful as Jim’s sexual services seemed to be for Bones’ ongoing processing efforts, he figured his presence was useful in more senses than merely the one.

As they gathered supplies for the maintenance that needed to be done on the house, Bones took him for periodic tours around Atlanta -- to the market, took him through downtown, toured him around the various suburbs and their characteristics. Jim asked questions and Bones always answered them, but he was far more silent than usual, offering almost no comments on Jim’s behavior no matter how outlandish; and he seemed to lean into Jim’s touch just a slight more even when it wasn’t bleeding with carnal intention, as though reminding himself that something existed outside his mind.

To Jim’s surprise, he was relatively lenient on whether or not they were going to go see the Barn Swallow; it was immediately “maybe,” and only a few days before “maybe” became “all right.” His fonder attitude toward the memories he seemed to have toward the venue meant that Bones might remember that not everything was doom and gloom in Georgia, and Jim was keen to try to coax some good feeling out of Bones with dancing as had worked countless times before.

They went on one particularly grey Sunday evening after the indoor maintenance was finished and the outdoor was again thwarted by rain, with Jim’s grinning attempts to get Bones to go ‘full South’ (“That doesn’t even mean anything,” Bones had grumbled while Jim tried to tell him how to dress) mostly successful by the time they’d left (“ _That doesn’t goddamn mean anything, Jim,_ ” Bones had hissed again as they scrambled down the front steps toward the car, to Jim’s grinning silence), and Bones had returned almost to his normal level of acidic commentary over the three hours it took them to get to where they needed to go. 

But as they pulled into the lot twenty minutes off the main drag, a sense of intense anxiety suddenly filled the car that Jim couldn’t place; and it was only moments later that Jim set his eyes upon a dingy structure that looked suspiciously like a car dealership -- the only building for as far as the eye could see.

“Are you sure we’re in the right place, Bones?” Jim asked initially; but as Bones’ horrified gaze focused wordlessly on the stunted building before them, his gaze fell to an old wooden sign just outside the driver’s side window, corners blackened as though singed by fire and leaning up against a tree in the corner of the lot. 

Barely visible around the chars, the text on the sign read: 

_The Barn Swallow_

“Oh, shit,” Jim said. Dread settled upon him in slow increments. “Shit.”

Bones only powered the car down slowly, a single “no” forcing itself from his vocal cords. 

Jim sat with him in the silent vehicle, staring at Bones as he stared at the structure, Bones’ expression open and pained and despairing, as though the Barn Swallow had been the last chance at some redemption to be found in Georgia, and Jim’s heart was in his throat.

“Bones,” said Jim.

_Sal’s Cars,_ said the tilted sign over the building in front of them.

“Why?” asked Bones, quietly.

“Bones,” Jim said again.

Bones only shook his head. Jim continued to stare at him as silence fell again. Bones was unguarded, his face showing the wear of the last several days, evidencing processes that had been roiling under the surface but that Jim hadn’t been totally sure of until now. 

“Come on, Bones,” Jim urged gently; but at first Bones only stared on. Jim felt the need to move, to get the fuck out, and he cracked open the car door. “C’mon. Let’s go take a look.”

Bones looked slowly over at him, still as lost as before, as though seeing Jim through a clouded lens; and Jim only legged his way out of the car, repeating the phrase as he slammed the door shut and strode casually toward the building.

He heard Bones eventually following suit behind him, the car door opening and shutting followed by reluctant, slow-moving footsteps; and by the time Bones approached the building half a minute later, Jim was already climbing up a drainpipe, his fingers soon finding purchase along the ledge of the overhang in front of the door, pulling himself up.

“Jim,” came Bones’ voice, raw, his form distant and blurry behind a curtain of drizzle. “What are you doing?”

“I think you should come up here, Bones.” Jim shoved his hands into his pockets and walked slowly along the bowing roof, kicking at it as he stepped. “Lots of rocks.”

“Lots -- what?”

“Rocks.” Jim picked one up from beside his foot -- a poorly-constructed concrete building apparently built on a very tight budget wasn’t complete without a prematurely-collapsing, gravel-covered roof -- and he tossed it lightly to Bones’ right side. 

Jim saw the shadow of Bones’ head follow its trajectory behind him, and Jim cracked an encouraging smile. “Fun, right?”

“ _Fun_?” The edge was back in Bones’ voice, and Jim felt relieved. “What in fresh hell are you--”

“Oh, come on. I know you like rocks.”

The beat that followed was full of unarticulated question marks. “Who on _earth_ ‘likes rocks’, Jim.”

“ _You do_ ,” he said very slowly, and bent to pick up another piece of gravel at his feet; but Bones said nothing, only seemed to look wordlessly up at him on the roof. “Come on, Bones,” he said, suddenly heavy again. The moisture in the air was making the moment yet thicker, and Jim’s lungs felt oddly tight. “You’re gonna drive three hours each way only to stare silently at the abandoned building that replaced your club? Come up here. Let’s make something of this.”

“There’s literally nothing to make,” Bones replied distantly.

“I’m telling you, man, there’s rocks on a roof.”

Bones seemed not to have an immediate reply to this. “It’s raining,” he observed eventually.

“Sort of, yeah. Does that change the equation?” Jim threw the rock he’d been turning over in his hand just long of the roof’s edge; it skittered over the pavement and made the noise that told Jim it had connected with the rubber of Bones’ shoe. Then he shoved his hands in his pockets and waited, staring Bones down patiently; and it was only a few seconds later and he ambled his way to the same drainpipe Jim had located and pulled himself atop the roof. “Here,” Jim said moments later, handing Bones a handful of rocks for no reason other than to feel the warmth of his hand; and they began tossing rocks into the empty parking lot below, gradually working up in distance until they were throwing them as far as they possibly could into the brush -- an informal competition that Bones, long-enduring rock-throwing champion, would handily win.

“Ow,” Jim said eventually, punctuating their silence for the first time in half an hour as he rolled his shoulder over and over in its socket.

“It’s raining harder,” Bones remarked, sounding as though he felt more like himself.

“Yeah.” He certainly wasn’t wrong; the moisture had long since begun settling in the fabric of Jim’s shirt, and the fact of actual raindrops was now undeniable. “Should we head before we wind up completely drenched for the ride home, or--”

But then Bones was stepping into him, the sudden weight and heat of his hands forcing pinprick focus to their points of contact against Jim’s skin; and suddenly his words fell away, clattering to the ground with the remaining rocks in his hands. The kiss that followed was the sort of slow and intent that left Jim gripping to Bones’ sides in part to keep himself on his feet, Bones’ wet hair brushing against his forehead in frigid contrast to the heat of Bones’ tongue in his mouth.

“I’d rather fuck you in the car,” Bones rumbled, voice splintered with his determination to the task; and Jim felt something in his chest expand, hot and blanketing, warming his skin in spite of the rain.

“That’s the spirit,” he managed in reply. 

As he settled himself over Bones moments later, his hands sculpting Bones’ hair into new and exciting shapes as Bones peeled his damp clothing off him with a pointed agility, he commented idly, “I guess you fucked a lot of ladies on this lot as a teenager.”

“Ladies? Not really.” Bones’ mouth quirked with the memory, tongue darting out to lick his lips as he tugged Jim’s pants down to his knees.“Mostly menfolk back then.”

Jim faltered, hands stalled in Bones’ hair, something pounding deep within him as his fingertips suddenly steepled themselves against Bones’ chest. “Are you seriously telling me you fucked men, on this lot, as a teenager, in Georgia?”

“Just about every Friday.” Bones was watching him carefully, something cautious but intentional in his gaze as he palmed Jim’s erection. “It was just that sort of place.”

“Um,” Jim said. He having trouble processing this information.

“Secluded, see,” Bones continued after a poignant pause. “Middle of nowhere. We did what we liked.”

“Okay.” Jim nodded, his throat working awkwardly through something he couldn’t identify. “I’m, uh … wow, that’s interesting.”

“I can see you’re interested.” Bones’ gaze flickered down to Jim’s cock, now hot and heavy and full in Bones’ hand, and an utterly nefarious grin suddenly instituted itself on Bones’ face. “Want to hear more about it?”

“I’m just … god, I don’t know. I kind of … I think I’m jealous?”

Bones raised an eyebrow. “This is how you react to jealousy?” The hand over his cock was moving, tightening, and something in the tone of his voice was having some effect on Jim he hadn’t accounted for.

“Fff--” Jim skittered out, rocking his hips. “Umm. The thing is that I kind of can’t handle that idea, like, at all. You with other … men, in public, in the _South_ , I don’t--” Jim rocked his hips again, involuntarily, and Bones’ teeth raked over his lower lip in seeming fascination over Jim’s reactions.

“Well you know, Jim boy,” he drawled pronouncedly, “we’re in public now.”

Jim shuddered and gripped his hands desperately, possessively, in Bones’ collar. “Different,” he said breathily. “No one here.”

“You sure? Gonna go check?”

Jim set his forehead against Bones’, the breath wrenched out of him with a flick of Bones’ wrist. “Different,” he insisted.

“Not that different,” Bones said. The hand wrapped around Jim’s dick disappeared as the other opened the lube. “Usually it was me and the next best dancer in the room. They tended to drop to their knees the second we got into the back room. Hands couldn’t get my belt undone fast enough. Too eager to take me.” Suddenly one lube-slicked finger was pushing its way slowly, slowly into Jim, and he gave a low hiss, pushing back against it. “Sounds like you, doesn’t it?”

“I’m better,” he whispered against Bones’ lips, voice as tight as the subtle gyration of his hips as he willed Bones to move.

“You think so?” Bones did move, slowly and without rhythm, finger hooking as Jim shuddered over him.

“I know so.”

“Hmm.” A second finger joined the first, and Jim whimpered distantly. “Course, it wasn’t just blowjobs.”

“ _Bones_.”

“Usually, sure, but sometimes they just wanted to get fucked. Slicked and stretched themselves beforehand, then told me what they wanted, so that all I had to do was take them outside and hold them down.”

“I ... Bones, I--”

“There was this one who kept coming _back_ ,” Bones interrupted, tone low and dominating and leaving Jim’s words ghosting in his throat. “Just showed up a couple times a month, told me exactly what he intended for me to do to him, and wasted no time in convincing me to make good on those intentions.” Bones fucked him slowly and in time with his words, and Jim was left to watch his lips to keep track of when the next thrust was coming. “Last time I ever saw him, he pushed me down on my back and sat himself down on my dick like he was built to take it. Fucked himself on me and stroked himself off without me having to lay a finger on him. I just lay back and watched.” Suddenly the fingers were gone, Bones’ other hand having long since freed his own dick and lubricated it to adequacy; and Bones lifted Jim’s hips, set him slowly down again over his lap, and stared Jim dead in the eye as he pushed into him, inch by slow inch. “Imagine that,” he finished.

His voice turned like a guttural engine in his throat, and it resonated all the way down through to Jim’s cock, bringing a snap out of his voicebox as he tackled Bones’ lips with his own. Bones’ hands ran over the cheeks of Jim’s ass, massaged at them until he pulled him up again; and Jim was forced to break away, his calves gripping at Bones’ sides.

“I used to fuck ‘em against the wall,” Bones continued, evenly, idly, too casually for Jim’s constitution to handle, Bones’ hips shifting down and then up again, words and cock slamming into Jim in equal pinpoint focus. “I used to fuck ‘em with their faces buried against the back lawn. One time I fucked someone right on the dancefloor. And it wasn’t about getting fucked by just anyone, Jim; they wanted _me_.” Bones’ hands set Jim down firmly; pulled him up again; brought him again down and deep. “They wanted _this_.”

“No,” Jim felt himself whispering distantly, eyes dropping closed as one hand fisted itself aggressively in the collar of Bones’ sopping shirt. “ _My_ Bones.”

“It’s funny you say that, Jim,” Bones rasped, breath faltering over Jim’s lips as he guided his slow fuck of Bones’ cock, “because as fun as that was -- as fucking incredible it could be to walk into this place and know I could have anyone I wanted--” he buried himself to the hilt in Jim and held him in place -- “there’s no one I’d rather be fucking in this lot now than you.”

Jim coughed something that might have been a laugh, his hand loosening and refisting itself in Bones’ collar, now shaking with a possessiveness that he struggled to control the tremors in his limbs. “Well, now you’ve kind of ruined it,” he said, voice staggered and faltering.

“Have I, now?”

“Now I know you actually want me. That all-consuming uncertainty sure was--”

Whatever it was got lost in a hitching moan as Bones suddenly snapped hard, his hands lifting, supporting him while he thrust firmly up into Jim from below. “Never doubt it, Jim boy,” Bones growled, and finally his voice had that edge that told Jim he was much further gone than his steadiness would have ever let on. He buried his face in Jim’s chest, the warmth of his lips setting themselves against Jim’s chilled skin as he went about fucking up into him with the sort of drive and conviction that forced Jim to clutch at the seat with one hand to keep his balance. “God _fucking_ help me, it’s all about you.”

And -- okay -- upon reflection that _also_ may have been an example in which Jim’s presence had been helpful to Bones in a way that involved fucking; but then Jim returned to himself after having come in Bones’ fist to find Bones’ fingertips tight against his back, clutching closer to him in spite of the mess between them, neither one seeming particularly inclined to move. At least their bodies were warm, sweat in pleasant juxtaposition to the rain pounding on the windscreen behind him; and Jim felt the relief washing off Bones in waves, felt him shedding himself of the shattered remains of the memory he’d been left to find here instead of the one thing in Georgia he might’ve actually still liked.

Even as he rearranged his limbs and held Bones closer to him, Jim was suddenly unbelievably fucking glad that something as bullshittingly simple as throwing rocks off a roof was something that he could come up with. That it was something that Bones never would. That it was something that led to the time-honoured healing ritual of defiling a rental vehicle.

“I told you you liked rocks,” Jim rasped into his ear.

Bones’ lips brushed over his chest. “Rocks off, more like.”

Jim quirked a smile and settled his mouth over Bones’ temple. “You’re gonna be fine, you know that?”

Bones stayed silent, only pressed his fingertips deeper into Jim’s skin; and Jim, for once in his goddamn life, _stayed put_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is another chapter coming! With apologies for delays. I associate too strongly with Bones’ relationship with home, so this was more difficult to write, and the next chapter is not easier in that respect.
> 
> Lyrics above from Justin Townes Earle’s “Far Away In Another Town”.


	5. August 2256

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: background character death, considerable discussion thereof.
> 
> The spoilery notes at the bottom explain my motivations for the plotlines of the chapter & the fic in general.

The weather broke after about a week, and Jim had finally convinced Leo that it was time to brave the roof.

The twentieth-century-style fibreglass shingles had been well taken care of when his father was well, David McCoy getting some perverse joy out of sweating his ass off in the humidity of autumn every year as he tromped along, tarring the shit out of “broken shingles” in what was surely inadvisable practice; replacing slats that may or may not have actually been decaying; aggressively cleaning out the gutters; and humming some damn chipper tune the whole time. 

Leo had never understood the need a successful surgeon could ever have to put the talent of steady hands to a roof, but his mother had always seemed oddly gleeful on roofing days, and he suspected in hindsight it may have all been an act to dose himself with a hit of old-world masculinity for the sake of wooing his wife. But it had been two years since he’d been alive and five since he’d been active, and David McCoy had never been a roofer; and the aggressive water damage spreading across the ceiling of one of the superfluous bedrooms on the north side of the house suggested significant work would be needed.

Leo had complained to Jim for two solid hours about what a horrible job this would be and shouldn’t they hire someone to replace the roof with something modern and practical? But Jim had had none of it, insisting with convincing expertise that the whole roof had definitely been replaced probably eight years ago. “You may have the house, Bones,” Jim reminded him, “but -- and correct me if I’m wrong -- you don’t have a hell of a lot of cash. We can fix it. Save your money.”

“Well when I sell--”

“ _Nope!_ ” Jim had interrupted loudly, and Leo had sighed heavily but fallen silent. “I roofed for six months in Wisconsin,” he placated with an easy grin, moving stacks of documents from an old abandoned armchair into a crate. “We have seriously got this.”

“You held a job legally?”

Jim hummed distractedly. “I might have.”

“Was it under a stolen identity?"

Jim let a lengthy pause pass them by before he uttered quietly, “It might’ve been.”

Leo sighed again, unsure whether he was amused or exasperated. “Are you even the real Jim Kirk?”

And Jim had smiled in a distant, sad sort of way and turned to face Bones, his hands sliding humbly into his pockets. “Yeah,” he said, softly but firmly. “And the real Jim Kirk actually does know a bit about roofing, so we’re doing this. Okay? Okay.”

“Was Wisconsin also lousy with twentieth-century architecture that _no one even wants anymore?_ ” Leo asked, sarcasm cutting the legitimate question as he got up from his chair and moved toward Jim.

Jim cracked a smile. “Some people like old world charm.” He reached out and tugged Leo’s hips toward him, catching his lips easily between his own as Leo’s arms wound themselves around Jim’s shoulders.

So Leo had disgruntledly spending the night reading up on shingles -- “equally unpleasant when roofing as when Andorian,” he’d muttered to himself to Jim’s surreptitious glee -- and decided that it did indeed seem reasonably straightfoward, if a job not ideally performed in Georgia’s August humidity.

Jim had handled himself well in the store and Leo concluded, if with some lingering uncertainty, that he seemed to know what he was doing; and he proved himself easily the next morning as he gave Leo a fleeting but comprehensible tutorial on what the hell they were meant to be doing up there. Leo felt he got the hang of it quickly, suddenly empathizing with his father’s interest in the endeavor given its comparative simplicity to surgery; and they spent four uninterrupted hours prying, tarring, and re-roofing before Leo distantly caught a glint of metal in the morning sun out of the corner of his eye shortly before noon.

He pulled himself slowly away after a last half-hearted stab at the nearest rotting shingle and turned toward the source, thinking it was just a shuttlecraft taking off in the distance; but he was surprised to see that it was a newer-model vehicle concealed behind a mounting cloud of dust. Leo could distantly hear the pulse of the bass behind the vehicle’s hybrid engine, and it wasn’t long before shut his eyes against the realization of who in the hell would be pulling into his seemingly abandoned estate with such intention. “Christ Almighty,” he murmured.

Jim’s head appeared from behind a roof peak as he gave Leo an inquisitive look. Leo blinked toward him, tight annoyance knitting his features; but he was too late, and Jim had already snapped his head to look where Leo’s gaze had been focused. “Someone coming for lunch, Bones?” he asked, the quirk in his smile betraying his endeavor to wind Leo up further.

But Leo was having none of it. “Stay here,” he threatened, brandishing a hammer clawside at Jim’s face. “Don’t say anything. You’re not present. Understand?”

Jim recoiled and raised a hand in surrender, eyebrows high with shock. “Christ! How many dark secrets you got buried here in Georgia?”

“Not exactly a secret,” he muttered to himself as he shoved the hammer into his belt and made his way down the ladder. He hopped down the final rungs and walked slowly toward the driveway to meet the vehicle, acutely aware of how ridiculous he must look ridiculous in jeans, his t-shirt sopped with sweat in the armpits, collar, and across the small of his back, his hair slicked back with the careless grease of unshowered bedhead and hard physical labour. He suddenly felt like a jackass for not having shaved in a week. It was hardly the image of himself he’d imagined for this moment.

The car powered down, the obnoxious old-world country-electronica powering down with it; and after a moment the door opened smoothly and silently, revealing a head of long, curling hair before its owner turned to face Leo with a soft smile.

“Hi, Leo,” Jocelyn offered, her tone strong enough to straddle the line between familiar and forced.

“Hello, Jocelyn,” Leo replied slowly, tongue fishing an imaginary piece of food out from his molars.

She leaned on her elbows against the hood of the car toward him, her keys clasped in her hands. “Nice look,” she said, obviously amused at the sight before her. 

“Nice car,” he rallied. “Who paid for it?”

Her smile took a flat tone. “You, mostly.”

“Well. At least you’re honest.”

She offered a steadying sigh and nodded at his belt. “Hammers in this season?”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes and thumbed behind him. “Fixing the roof.”

“Really! You used to hate it when David did that.”

Leo shrugged. “Needs doin’.”

Her lips parted in a slow grin, and she stepped back, slamming the driver’s side door down in front of her. “You gonna sell the place?”

“Thinkin’ about it.”

“I wouldn’t,” she advised.

“It’s bleeding me dry,” he reminded her bitterly.

“It’s your family home.”

“It’s an empty hall of bad memories, Jocelyn. It’s a gaping chasm of a manor into which my final remaining dollars are being liberally thrown.” Leo frowned at her entertained expression. “You want to quit suing me for alimony so I can afford to keep it up? Then I’ll keep it.”

Her smile flickered off her face. “You know there’s a reason for that.”

“Do I! Please enlighten me, Jocelyn. Because last I checked, you won. You kept it all. So I’m wondering on what planet you’re justified--”

“Are you fucking serious right now?”

“--in draining me of my comparatively meagre salary just because … why? Because I was a shitty goddamn husband?”

“Because you _blamed me_ for everything that happened, you mean?” She exhaled sharply through her nostrils. “You were married to me for long enough to know, Leo, that I’m not just going to take that shit sitting down. You want to walk all the hell up and down, accusing me of unspeakable things--”

“Fascinating rewrite of history, Joce.”

“--while you spent all your time at the office, with your damned nanites … or was it Nancy all along? They sounded so much alike, it was hard to tell.”

“Now you know _damned well_ I never cheated on you--”

“You would have,” she countered easily, “if I hadn’t found your comm records and guilted you out of it.”

“I’m intrigued by your liberal use of the word ‘found’ in that sentence.”

“And it wasn’t like you were investing the money so much as funding your little sex crawl up the coast.”

“Can you … not call it that?”

“I think emotional damages had to be repaid,” she concluded calmly, ignoring Leo’s complaints.

“We blamed _each other,_ Jocelyn. Of course we did. That’s how shit goes down with that kind of thing."

"Is that your beloved psych credential talking?" 

Leo huffed. "Don’t pretend it was all me. With all you had to say about my work habits--”

“You _were_ working all the time.”

“And why was that? Oh, yeah. My dad was dying of some incurable fucking disease that no one could figure out. So sue me.” He furrowed his brow with mock realization. “Oh, wait -- you did.”

Jocelyn bowed her head briefly, then returned her gaze to Leo with forced despondence. “I needed you,” she said quietly, unwaveringly.

“I’m only one man.” He shrugged. 

“That’s a cowardly fucking excuse.”

He shrugged again, hands slapping against his jeans, defeat flooding his chest. “I’ve already told you I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he reiterated in a weary tone, “and I am. I done fucked up. I’m not surprised I fucked up. I’m shocked that you are.” He stared at her as her gaze flicked briefly to his left. “Now did you come here to yell at me, or is there some other motive behind this here final swift kick in the balls?”

But her gaze was still fixed on something to Leo’s left. “Who’s this?” she asked at last, trying to force lightness back into her tone.

“I’m Jim, Jim Kirk,” Jim waxed smoothly in Leo’s ear, forcing him to jump with wound apprehension when he stepped forward. “You must be Jocelyn,” and he held out his tar-covered hand for Jocelyn to shake.

Leo clenched his fists and forced himself to take a steadying breath so as to prevent himself from punching Jim in the face. "Don't make her touch you, damnit, wash your--"

“Nice to meet you, Jim,” she said warmly, taking the hand without hesitation. “How do you know Leo?”

“I’m a friend of _Leo’s_ ,” he leaned into the word, “from the Academy.” He thumbed behind him at the manor much as Leo had moments earlier. “Here to help fix up the house.”

“That’s wonderful.” Jocelyn looked Leo dead in the face, her casual smile betrayed by the knowing look in her eyes, visible even behind her sunglasses. “How wonderful for you.”

Leo nodded slowly, willing the stinging waves washing in his gut to go away. “Don’t mock me, Jocelyn.”

“I’m not trying to, Leo,” she said, and sincerity punctuated her words despite a heavy layer of buttery charm. “I heard you’d gone to Starfleet from your lawyer, obviously. It sounds like your kind of place. Helping people. What you always wanted, right?”

“That’s right,” he said evenly.

“What with the space and the flying and never being in one place for very long--”

“I’ve learned to be transient.” Leo’s tone was flat.

She gave him a sidelong glance. “I didn’t kick you out,” she reminded him.

Leo blinked slowly. “I know.”

Jim hummed as his gaze flitted between them.

Leo flinched and moved his hand to pinch at his nose, but then remembered that his fingers were covered in tar, so wound up just splaying them frustratedly in front of his face. “Can we _help you,_ ” he hissed at Jim.

“No,” Jim said lightly, evaluating them both. “Continue.”

Leo shut his eyes in complete and utter exasperation and turned his gaze back to Jocelyn, intending to ignore Jim completely for the remainder of the conversation. “Why are you really here, Joce,” he began, forcing softness into his tone and crossing his arms for comfort.

Jocelyn smiled, sadness hinting her cheeks, and she removed her sunglasses to look Leo properly in the face. “I mostly wanted to see you,” she said honestly, their argument seemingly past. “You look good.”

Leo raised an eyebrow. “Now that’s an outright lie.”

Jocelyn shook her head, smile spreading. “No. It isn’t. You look healthy. Something else. What’s the word? Fulfilled? Purposeful. You look good. I mean it. You’re ... solid.” She gave a breath of laughter. “Much better than you looked last June.”

“I’m half-drenched in sweat,” he reminded her, his own lips quirking up despite himself. “I’m covered in tar. I must stink to high heaven.”

“It works for you.”

“Good lord, Jocelyn. Pa was right. You are like my mother.”

Jim gave an intake of breath that suggested he thought Leo’d just dished an insult, but Jocelyn understood and nodded graciously. “You married well,” she intoned softly.

Leo clenched his jaw. “I did,” he managed in a low voice.

Jim, thankfully getting a fucking clue for once in his life, was slowly stepping back and retreating into the house. Leo held Jocelyn’s gaze steadily until the slam of the screen door that confirmed his withdrawal.

“You fucking that boy, McCoy?” Jocelyn asked with a sly expression.

Leo considered her for a moment, but then cracked a smile and nodded slowly. “Yes ma’am,” he intoned.

“Atta boy.”

“Thank you very much.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You care about him?”

Leo stared at her like a deer in headlights, disarmed by the question, able only to open and close his mouth several times.

“Oh, I see,” she breathed, smile kind. “You poor bastard, he’s got you good.” She tutted and stepped slowly back toward her car. “Jailbait, mind.”

“You’re not kidding,” he replied, finally locating words as he ran a tarred hand through his hair, “but not in the way that you think. Give it another year, I’ll have been arrested at least once. What are you--”

Jocelyn slipped her head behind the driver’s seat and reappeared with a holo frame and a small stack of documents. The levity was gone from her expression, replaced mostly with sympathy and determination.

Leo stared at her and finished the thought with a flat tone. “What are you doing.”

She held the documents aloft in one hand and held Leo’s gaze with steady green eyes. “I need your signature, Leo,” she said softly.

Leo’s breath came in sharp bursts. “What for?”

“It’s time to get rid of the diploids--”

“No.”

“--so that we can move on with our lives properly.”

“ _No._ ”

“Leo.”

“ _Jocelyn,_ ” he urged, “don’t. Don’t do this.”

She took a deep breath and pointed toward the house, quirking an eyebrow. “Does he know these exist?”

“We’re -- I’m -- I met him a year ago. He’s 23. No. We’re not--” He took a deep breath and gestured vaguely to the files. “I’m never doing that again.”

“You’re not?” She raised her eyebrows. “Even better reason to destroy them. Now you’ll never have to.”

“No,” he said again, severely, eyes wide. “No.”

“Oh my God, Leo, you fucking sentimentalist,” she breathed, blinking as her calm demeanor slipped away from her. “When are you going to get over it already?”

The silence fell heavy and leaden between them. “ _Get over it?_ ” he managed eventually, voice cracking.

“I--” Jocelyn brought her free hand to her face in distress. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You want me to get over--”

“No. I don’t. I don’t. I’m sorry. I don’t mean that. But, Leo,” she shook her head and gave an exhausted laugh, “you have to sign. Please. You do have to sign. Because I’m seeing someone too, and I can’t have this hanging over us. I can’t have this--” she brandished the documents -- “ruling me anymore. And I can’t believe you want this to keep … running your life, being your life. Keeping you from Georgia. Keeping you from your home.”

“This isn’t my home,” he growled bitterly.

“It _is_ ,” she repeated firmly, “and you seriously, _seriously_ need to move on.” She gestured again at the house. “Jim seems great! He’s robust. He’s gonna keep you young, keep you from resigning yourself into being the eighty-year-old man you grew into three years ago. You need that in your life.” She shook the documents again. “You do not need this in your life. Not anymore. It’s done. It’s a past stage. Look at you now! You’re doing great, and don’t try to deny it again because I haven’t seen you like this in actual damn years, Leonard. You’re _fixing_ a _roof_ , for crying out loud. And I bet it’s because he’s talked you into it. What other crazy shit has he convinced you to do? Are you dancing again, too?” Leo blinked heavy surprise, and she laughed genuinely. “He said four words to me and I got all that from his eyes. I can’t think of a better person for you, Leo.”

“Jocelyn,” he pleaded, ignoring her speech, blood pounding in his ears. “Please don’t.”

Jocelyn searched his eyes carefully, her lips pursed. “I have to,” she said quietly. “I have to. I need this to be done. I need this to be _over_.” She shut her eyes and shook her head. “Forget you, then, Leo, if it helps you. _I_ need this to be over. _I_ need to move on.” She held the documents and holo out in indication for him to take them. “Please. I want to start a new chapter. I want to try out the next shot at happiness. Will you consider letting me move on?”

“No,” he said, then immediately winced. “I mean, it’s not … like that, just -- _Joce._ ” She stared at him with some combination of pity and defiance, and he shut his eyes against her gaze. “We _can’t_ ,” he urged her desperately, opening his eyes again despite the telltale feeling of control slipping quickly away from him.

Jocelyn paused, then nodded solemnly, crouching to set the documents gently on the ground, holo resting on top. “I don’t want to sue you again, Leo,” she said, voice as even and sympathetic and _angry_ as it had been in the weeks and months after it had happened. “Please don’t let it come to that.”

“Jocely--” The word snapped in half in his throat as she turned away from him, and he took two staggered steps forward before the pile of documents stopped him, lying before him as though enforcing a boundary. “Joce -- can we -- _Jocelyn!_ ”

But she only ignored him, legging her way into the car without a glance back, music pounding suddenly back at him with the press of a button before the door even closed; and then she was driving away, and Leo was still standing there, breath coming to him only in short bursts, the peripheries of his vision falling away.

His name was being called from some distant location. Jim was there, Jim was beside him, and yet his voice was so quiet.

A hand at his arm. “Bones. _Bones._ Come on, Bones. Let’s go in.”

“No,” he said only. The trail of dust was settling back onto the driveway; the music trailed away with it; blood pounded at his ears. “I’m going for a walk.”

Jim cocked his head at him, mouth opening as though to say more; but something in Leo’s voice seemed to make him change his mind. “Okay,” he said finally. “Do you want me to come?”

“ _No,_ ” Leo said, too fiercely; he tore his arm away as Jim stepped back in surprise.

“Okay,” he said again, calm and infuriating in the face of Leo’s turmoil. “What should I do with the stuff Jocelyn left?”

“Put it away,” Leo said shortly, turning on his heel and walking across the lawn. His own voice was miles away, too, hollow, striated, clipping shorter still as the mass in his chest seemed to grow with every step. “Put it away,” he said again, louder. “I never want to see it again.”

\---

The documents first reappeared two days later. 

They were sitting on the armchair where no one ever sat. They took up so little space and they were on the opposite end of the study from his father's old chair, where he was sitting; and yet they were the loudest part of the room. 

He stared at them for a solid two minutes upon noticing they were there, his PADD lying forgotten in his hands as he processed exactly what he was seeing, the documents and holo both still showing remnants of driveway dust along the edges. Then he walked clean out of the room, refusing to re-enter for the remainder of the day, his morning coffee abandoned on the side table, his PADD left on the floor where he’d dropped it.

“Don’t,” was the only thing he said about it, pointing toward the outer wall of the study the next time Jim passed him by, Jim laden with a ladder and Leo with enough sharp objects to look menacing; and Jim looked at him quizzically but not unknowingly before opting to say absolutely nothing in return.

But the next day, they were still there. 

Leo stared. Then he sat in the study with them for an hour. Timed. 

After that he spent resolutely little time indoors, preferring instead to hack away at the overgrown bushes in his mother’s garden with a manual saw.

“Hey, Bones,” Jim called out after a few hours, poking his head out the window of the dining room. “You want to take a break? Play some chess in the study?”

“Done my time in there today, thanks, Jim,” he said, tone clipped, and resumed hacking until long after Jim had again retreated.

The day following, they were moved to the ledge of the faux fireplace, further from Leo’s chair but in plainer sight.

Leo stared at them for eight seconds, hovering in the door to the study, not bothering to intrude upon them further than necessary; and promptly he turned on his heel and left the room.

“Jim,” he’d said, parched, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against it with one arm as though bracing himself to explain. But Jim only hummed inquisitively, looked fleetingly up, and returned to chopping vegetables -- slowly, unskillfully, but evenly and with intention.

“Want some salad, Bones?” Jim asked, carefully repositioning his fingers. “The market this morning had radishes. I went while you were still sleeping. I’m fucking ecstatic. I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve had real radishes but I used to love them as a kid.” He popped a slice into his mouth, as though to demonstrate the point. “My mom used to call me Radishes when she was mad at me, because she said I made her mouth feel bitter. But I never got that.” He looked up at Leo and smiled lightly at him, sunlight bouncing off his hair and beard, making him look wonderfully warm and at home, as though he’d been in Leo’s kitchen all along. 

“Sliced radishes have always been just like snack food to me,” Jim continued as Leo stared at him. “Way better than potato chips. That’s some seriously greasy shit, am I right? Who needs that? Anyway,” he gestured at the large wooden bowl. “Want some? It’s good, I promise. I make a fierce fucking salad. I mean … theoretically. I’ve eaten a lot of them so I figure it’s _probably_ gonna be fine.”

Leo continued to stare at him for a long time, unmoving and unblinking as the affable and slightly embarrassed grin spread across Jim’s face, matching the sunlight splayed over his features. “Yeah, Jim,” he said finally, voice echoing oddly in the room; and he stepped slowly into the kitchen to pull out a chair from the table, forcing the documents out of his mind. “I’ll have some salad.”

\---

Georgia lived up to its reputation as oppressively hot long enough for them to paint the house’s impressive exterior in a mere matter of three days; and that was the fucking end of _that._

Jim had insisted on cleaning up on his own, claiming he was not nearly as hot as Leo looked (“Did you grow up here or not? You look like you’re wilting, seriously. Go sit down. I got this. I painted houses for four months in Seattle, I’ll get it done fast. Get inside before you collapse on me, I’m serious, you’re too fucking heavy for me to carry”), and Leo did have to admit that he was feeling unusually beat. So he’d run his hand across the small of Jim’s back in quiet thanks and returned inside, poured himself a glass of lemonade, and thrown himself into his usual chair in the study. 

He tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling for a moment, reveling in the fact that the repairs on the house were finally _done_ at long last, before raising his head to take a good, steady drink, sweat rolling liberally off his brow. 

And then, as he turned to set the glass aside, his eyes landed on the forgotten documents -- now sitting right beside him, the holo set gently on top of them.

Leo eyeballed it and forced his breathing into a steady pattern. 

This was the last straw. _Jim will pay for this._

But he realized, after a moment of his usual blank staring, that today he was (a) not fleeing, (b) forming complete threats in his mind, and (c) still miraculously looking at the pile without the cold grip of panic closing itself around his throat.

After another moment of staring, he picked up the pile and moved to the kitchen. This required a hearty fucking bourbon.

\---  
\---

Jim plodded into the kitchen to see Bones sitting at the table with a glass half-full of amber liquid set in front of him, fingers white-knuckled around the active holo, eyes unblinking as he seemed to stare through it.

“Bones.”

Bones head turned slowly to find Jim in the doorway. He blinked at Jim a couple times, his expression blank and inscrutable, before he nodding Jim in, almost imperceptibly.

Jim held Bones’ gaze as he made his slow approach. His own heart was pounding inexplicably in his chest, denoting his fear at what he was about to see; but to his surprise, the holo showed mostly Jocelyn, happy and holding a baby close to her breast.

Jim crouched to get a better look, a smile flashing lightly across his face. “Her name was Joanna,” Bones husked, pulling his eyes away and handing Jim the holo as he reached for his drink.

“Oh my god,” he breathed, watching Jocelyn’s hand fall affectionately over the baby’s peachfuzz head. The baby’s head turned to the camera and she was smiling, and oh, hell, she was adorable. “Bones, is this--”

Her name _was_ Joanna.

“Oh, Bones. Fuck.” The floor fell out from under Jim’s feet in degrees, a slow sag culminating in a sudden drop of fifty feet. Jim barely held onto the holo; his vision blurred unexpectedly, and one hand snapped to the closest chair to prevent him from losing his balance. “Bones,” he whispered around the lump in his throat. 

“She got sick,” Bones offered hollowly after a thirty-second silence in which Jim attempted to steady himself. “Leutscher virus, only we didn’t call it that back then. Alien thing, Betelgeusian, newly mutated to affect humans. We didn’t know what it was. A lot of people died. A lot of people.” 

Jim was unable to tear his eyes away from the images that flashed past on the holo. Jocelyn coming home from the hospital, tired grin a mile wide as she cradled a small bundle, Bones nattering endlessly on off-screen; Jocelyn setting Joanna onto her knees and making her arms dance gently as tiny fists wrapped themselves around her fingers; just Joanna asleep in her crib, mouth moving gently, Jocelyn whispering staggered comments from behind the capture.

Jim looked up fleetingly at Bones with an empty, gaping expression. Bones’ eyes lingered on the holo a moment before took a large quantity of bourbon into his mouth and let it sit on his tongue, swallowing slowly, to feel the burn, Jim knew. “I wasn’t a good enough pathologist yet,” Bones articulated slowly, voice stripped by the alcohol. He looked directly at Jim with wide eyes that were way more fucking lost than Jim knew what to do with. “By the time they finally isolated a cure--” he said, voice breaking into a whisper halfway through. “I kept thinking, if I’d been better … maybe she’d still be here.”

Jim collapsed into the chair next to Bones and wrapped his feet around Bones’ leg, hands still holding the holo in front of him. He held Bones’ gaze, horror settling into his chest. “Bones.” Jim thought he might be sick and slid a preventative hand over his mouth. “ _Bones._ ”

“That,” Bones rasped, a slow tear running suddenly down his face as he indicated the holo with his bourbon-laden hand, “in hindsight, is when I started sleeping at the lab.”

Jim took in a breath as though to say something, but managed only an exhale, shock clouding his ability to think, to breathe properly, to offer support. “You’re not … responsible,” he managed at last, voice reduced to a whisper, honesty stark on his face as he snapped his gaze at last away from the holo. “You can’t save everyone, Bones. Not … not even…”

“Not even my own child?” Bones finished for him, voice splitting at the seams; and in one fluid motion Jim set the holo and Bones’ glass on the table and stood, arms pulling Bones into him with mach force, Bones’ hands clenching themselves in Jim’s shirt and the both of them stiffening as though willing the tremors away from their points of contact.

\---

There had been this one time during Leo’s clinic shift when Jim had trudged in when he should’ve been in his survival skills class, sporting the sort of bruises that one generally got when one suffered a tremendous beating and the sort of expression one sported when the beating was far more psychological than physical. He’d gone straight for Leo, shrugged off the nurses fluttering around him, and Leo had tossed the clipboard he was holding aside and gone to Jim as though magnetically compelled.

Jim had held his gaze calmly despite the eye that was badly bloodshot and threatening to swell closed; had said nothing; had quietly hitched himself onto a bed and parted his knees so Leo could step in close; had tilted his head to the side and back at Leo’s slightest touch so that his neck was bared. It was his total silence and the malleability of his gestures that had scared Leo, far more than the bruises did -- the willingness of Jim to show vulnerability, to show no evidence of resistance or fight whatsoever, that forced Leo’s jaw to set, brought his hands to move more deliberately as they ran over his skin.

“Does the rest of you look like this, too?” he’d asked quietly, barely moving his lips; and Jim had only shut his eyes and nodded. Leo had reached for the nearest dermal regenerator and begun to run it over the worst of the bruising while the other hand rested gently on Jim’s neck, holding him still unnecessarily to help mitigate the restrictions to their interaction, given that both of them remained in uniform. “You want to tell me what happened?”

The thumb that was set ineffectually over the pulse in his neck was briefly dislodged by the force of Jim’s adam’s apple as he swallowed. “I got beat,” he had whispered eventually, the sound barely clearing his throat.

“You got fucking beat to shit,” Leo countered, not without gentility; but Jim lightly shook his head and shut his eyes.

“No,” he’d rasped, letting several seconds pass until Leo withdrew the regenerator from one area under his eye, swallowing twice and scrabbling his teeth pointlessly across his swollen lip. “I lost the scenario,” he’d said at last, straightening his face just enough to hold Leo’s gaze, to show Leo just how much he had lost -- _was_ lost -- and compelling Leo to slip the tips of his fingers just slightly into Jim’s hair from their perch on his neck.

“You’re here now,” he’d said in reply, and then said it again once the worst of Jim’s face was regenerated. He supported Jim’s exhausted limbs while they shrugged off his bloodied uniform, allowing his fingers long sweeps across Jim’s lines and planes, setting two fingers carefully over every bruise he could find. “I need to know the specifics of the scenario,” Leo said once he’d tucked every part of Jim away again and had returned the regenerator to his face. “Would you prefer me to ask your instructor?”

Jim nodded slowly. “She said I could retake,” he said, locating his vocal cords for the first time. “I didn’t technically fail, because Hendorff sabotaged me.”

“What! That fucking pissant--”

“But there’s no retakes in real life, Bones.”

“I know, Jim, but--”

“I failed to predict a variable, and as a result I failed to survive.”

Leo’s hands had suddenly taken Jim’s face between them, and he'd had to cover by pretending to examine the injury over Jim's eye. “You’ve survived,” he told Jim firmly, staring him down. “You’re _here now_. This isn’t some goddamned omen of things to come. You’re going to trust that your crew isn’t going to sabotage you in the future or you’re going to maroon their asses on some ass-backward planet before they get the chance. You got beat to shit here and you’re gonna get beat to shit again, but you’re going to survive. Failure’s not an option for you. You know better than that.” Leo held Jim’s gaze and was relieved to see the clarity in his eyes. “And when you do get beat to shit, I’ll be here to fix you up. So to hell with you and your failure to survive. Just who do you think we are?”

Jim’s hands had come up to sweep Leo’s away, but gripped at them tightly in the process, his knees squeezing absurdly at Leo’s thighs. “You look hot in your hospital whites, Bones,” Jim had croaked, to which Leo had given a half-smile and pushed him back incredulously; and Jim had taken the test again the following week and passed without taking a single injury.

There had been something to that occasion -- something about the way he’d trusted Leo with such an intensely vulnerable moment -- that was mirrored in Georgia.

Jim had sat with Leo for an absurdly long time, longer than Leo had ever seen Jim sit still in his life. They’d relocated to the study for the sake of comfort, Leo’s resting his head on Jim’s stomach, and Leo had, at some point, rewound the holo. It sadistically contained almost all the footage Leo could remember having taken of Jo, from the second she'd been given back to Jocelyn after her birth to the first time she'd sat up unassisted. They'd watched it all, sprawled out on the sofa, laughing thickly on occasion at some absurd face Jo was pulling or at Jocelyn's joy at pressing a raspberry into her tummy or -- at which Jim's hands had invariably clenched involuntarily tighter in Leo's shirt -- the couple of captures Jocelyn had taken of Leo lying on the floor beside her and looking on fondly as she wriggled in place, of him holding her to his chest and humming deeply as she drifted off to sleep, Leo immediately mock-scowling when he discovered her recording him, still never stopping the song as he turned away.

“I was younger then,” Leo remarked distantly.

Jim exhaled, amusement embedded deeply in some intense sympathy, his fingers tugging gently at Leo’s hair. “Your power of observation continues to dazzle, Bones.”

Leo shut his eyes, and when he opened them again Jocelyn was back on the holo, asleep on the sofa with Jo rested against her chest. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, Bones. I know what you mean.”

The capture shook gently, and Leo surmised that his earlier self had sat down. “ _My girls_ ,” came his voice, Atlantan as all get out and heavy with some startling existential realization, as though by seeing the two of them together in this light he’d found the meaning of life, stretched out and snuggled under a blanket on his living room sofa. “ _My girls._ ”

“Right after the divorce I wondered a lot about how things would be different,” Leo rumbled, trying to kill the mounting thickness in his lungs with the expulsion of words, “if she’d survived. Would I have worked less? Would I have found better reasons to come home?”

Leo reappeared on the holo, holding Joanna in two arms and grinning completely without restriction as he peered down at her. “She’s snoring,” he told the capture mirthfully, and Jocelyn exhaled affectionate laughter on the other side. “Listen to this, little -- hell, that’s precious. Such small--” And Leo’s voice cut off, the grin disappearing in favour of a tight-lipped smile, and his throat worked against the lump that appeared to be lodged in his throat as he glanced back up at Jocelyn.

“Ladies and gentlemen, he’s a goner.” Her voice hovered in the room, and Leo snorted thickly both on and off the capture.

“It’s stupid,” he replied, weakly, on-holo. “How much this matters. It’s everything, Joce. It’s _everything._ ”

“Get over it, curmudgeon,” Jocelyn prompted him, gentility and warmth floating out of her tone as she laughed along with the command; and the capture suddenly faced the floor, froze on a shot of their condo’s carpeting, denoting the end of the holostream.

Jim’s hands gripped and loosened in his shirt, followed by an apologetic smoothing gesture, only to be repeated again and again as Leo continued to hold the frozen holo aloft. He stared at the carpet in frame as though it could offer him some solution -- eventually reached out to the image as though expecting to feel it under his fingers -- but felt instead only cold hard glass, a shock beneath his skin.

“I was the world’s biggest asshole when she got sick,” he eventually offered, hollowly. “Jocelyn had taken her out for a walk and they’d run into some bizarre police incident involving an Ithenite who had lost its way and was acting aggressively. I thought this was what had done it, irrationally, before we discovered the virus was Betelgeusian in nature -- that it couldn’t possibly have been anything even resembling her fault. I was bullheaded enough to be vocal with criticism about what business Jo had being out of the house, plus some other real fucked-up bullshit I chose to throw in. I knew better, but I was …” Leo cleared his throat. “I blamed Jocelyn for a long time. I blamed everyone, myself most of all, but she didn’t deserve any of it, and definitely not for as long as I held my resentment. Even though I never brought it up again, she knew I still blamed her. It was implied every night I failed to come home.”

“Bones,” Jim half-whispered, and he too cleared his throat. “I -- look, I can’t … possibly understand where you’re at with this, but I _seriously_ think you need to stop talking about this as though your reactions were your fault. The fact that you went from that,” he gestured to the holo, “to the children’s ward at the hospital in a matter of weeks is un _fucking_ real. No one should expect you to have dealt with it well, not even you. No one _could_ have.”

“Jocelyn was great,” he replied idly. “She was steady as hell. Almost too steady. I never understood how she managed it.”

To Leo’s surprise, Jim huffed with frustration, and Leo’s eyebrows shot up in inquiry. “I wasn’t there and this isn’t my deal,” Jim began, clearly putting some effort into tempering his tone, “but I think you might be misremembering. I -- okay. When -- okay.” Jim flexed his hand in Leo’s shirt and took a deep breath. “Tarsus, right,” he said, sounding faintly strangled, and Leo’s gaze shot up to watch him as he spoke. “Mom was … in fits about the fact I’d been there at all, that she hadn’t come to get me herself when she heard about the famine, that she’d let it get to the point that … that it did. That I had to experience all that. And she did her best to support me when I got back, right, but she fucking couldn’t, because she had absolutely no idea how. She tried being disconnected and being overly connected and every goddamn iteration she could think of, and none of it worked. I don’t know if it was me or her, but…” He shrugged. “I just … picture Jocelyn feeling the same way, watching her only kid…” Jim trailed off, stared at the wall, tugged absently at Leo’s shirt. “I don’t think she did as well as you remember. She probably just did the same as you, did what she could. Did what she had to. Just managed to get by.”

Leo stared up at Jim with wide eyes, sourceless white noise roaring in his ears. “Jim, I--”

“I got an alert when you ran a search for my name in the fucking Tarsus file database, Bones,” he said quickly, his head leaning back against the cushion, exposing his throat. “If I hadn’t woken up in your bed the next morning and had you yell at me same as you ever did, I might never have spoken to you again.” He shook his head lightly. “You weren’t supposed to find out about it. No one’s supposed to find out about it.” 

Leo closed a fist over his mouth. “ _Are_ you Witness 6?” he asked, voice ruptured with the effort; and the resulting look on Jim’s face made him regret the question as soon as he’d asked it.

“I never,” Jim replied, voice dry and hollow, “want to be called by those words ever again, Bones, I mean it.”

“Okay. Okay.” He slid one hand over the one Jim had rested on his chest, working his fingers between Jim’s, bringing his hand to rest briefly against his lips before settling it back down on his chest. “You got it, kid.”

Jim exhaled heavily, venting agitation, fingers twitching with the effort of his stillness. “You know enough, Bones. Don’t ask me more about it. Some things are best left in the past.” A silence followed, thick with affirmation of Jim’s request; and Jim’s hand seemed to relax tick by tick over his ribs. “Don’t change the subject, anyway,” Jim continued, attempting to inject something other than extreme gravity into his tone as his other hand wound its way back in Leo’s hair. “My point is that Jocelyn coped by keeping it together. You coped in a different way. It’s all just coping. So quit being so hard on yourself. This was … this is … a massive loss, Bones. You’re allowed to be fucked up about it.”

Leo processed this information exhaustedly, saying nothing while Jim massaged the top of his head; then the hand disappeared, reached for something. “Tell me about these documents,” he asked quietly, holding the stack of papers aloft.

Leo glanced at it and cringed. "It’s --” He struggled to sit up and turned to face into the room, looking sidelong at the documents as though afraid to behold them directly. “Jocelyn and I had some of our reproductive shit put away. In case we wanted to have another kid." Leo set the holo aside and ran his hands over his face. "Now she wants to destroy it."

Jim seemed to tense as he processed this information. "Do you want to ... have another kid ... with her?"

"No," Leo said immediately, and the statement was honest. "Even if she was willing, we had our shot, we've been through too much. It would be hell, all of it, every part. There's no sense in it. It just--" Leo cleared his throat aggressively against its sudden re-tightening. "It just feels like ... well. 'Nail in the coffin' isn't proverbial enough."

Jim blinked at him, seemed to stifle the movement of his hand to meet Leo’s skin. "They're not her," Jim reminded him.

"I know that, damnit, I'm a doctor, of course I know that. But I -- I can't let this go. I just need the inaccurate perception that she's still -- that she -- is there, somehow."

"Okay," Jim said, setting the documents aside and tugging at Leo’s arm until he fell sideways back into Jim’s lap. A knuckle of Jim’s finger suddenly ran along Leo’s cheek, startling him, until he realized it was tracing the path of a wayward tear. "I get what you're saying, but I think you're looking in the wrong place. She isn't there, Bones." Jim’s hand settled back in his hair. "This is -- data. It's not even her data, it's not anyone's data. It's just data. The memories you keep trying to run from -- that's the real shit. That's the stuff you shouldn't sign away. This? These papers? A legal technicality. The equivalent of a cargo waiver, shit you're still carrying around that you don't even want anymore. This --" Jim reached for the holo and held it up. "This -- you -- Jocelyn -- every other person she came across. That's how she keeps on."

Leo's throat-clearing tactic was suddenly failing, the panic at the thought of losing the diploids weighing heavily, irrationally in his chest. His hand sought purchase on Jim’s leg. "I am still fucked up about this.”

Jim sputtered something that sounded distantly like laughter as he pulled gently at Leo’s hair. "Yeah. How fucking dare you."

"It was over two years ago."

"And you had so much time to deal with it between your doctorate and your practicing hours and your ailing father and your grieving wife and everything falling to shit around you and -- Bones, Bones," Jim soothed, tone shifting suddenly as he registered the shuddering of Leo’s shoulders. He tugged gently, hopelessly at the hairs at on Leo’s neck as Leo’s arms moved almost involuntarily to cover his face. “Bones.”

“Fuck, sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t want to do this.”

"What?” Jim’s tone was strange but still managed to settle somewhere between incredulous and annoyed. “Stop being sorry _immediately_ , Bones, I swear to god."

Inexplicably, laughter danced around in Leo’s chest cavity as he endeavored to stretch out. He paused to take several deep breaths, then looked apologetically at Jim. "Some vacation I've brought you on," he graveled.

"Best vacation I've ever had," Jim said without meeting his eyes, his hands tracing Leo’s planes and slopes instead, just as present.

"Well.” Leo shut his eyes another moment to register Jim’s hands over his skin, then wrenched himself abruptly again into sitting. "Aren’t we pathetic.”

"No argument." At last Jim looked at him, examining him carefully, looking pale and fucked up in his own right. He hesitantly handed him the stack of papers. "It's up to you, Bones,” Jim said quietly. “I get why you don't want to sign them, but if it were me, I would -- so Jocelyn can move on if for no other reason -- but also so you can, so you can start bringing Joanna with you instead of locking her away alongside some diploids in a lab. I think you’ll do her much better justice." 

Leo stared at the documents, relaxing against the sofa as the weight of Jim’s words settled into him; and Jim's hand landed on Leo's knee as he pushed himself to his feet. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to take the world's most epic piss."

And after all of that, it wasn’t so difficult to find he’d made a decision; to pick up his comm; to message Jocelyn. It was more difficult, he found, to actually sign. The pen pressed itself against the page just fine, but would not move; and it wasn’t until his comm chirped back at him and reminded him that the rest of the world was still on the other side of the moment he was trapped in that the pen finally moved, formed lines that closely resembled his usual signature, and then balanced for a moment in gravitational freefall once Leo had withdrawn his hand, finally collapsing on its side top of the pile, having completed its task.

Immediately shutting his eyes against some unexplained vertigo, Leo stretched back out on the sofa and shut his eyes. Sleep pounded in his head like some incessant refrain, and after a few moments of futile struggle, he resigned his grief over to it. 

In his next moments of consciousness something large was climbing on top of him, pawing over him on the sofa, rearranging his limbs until it was settled comfortably against him.

"Jim.” Leo peered down at him and tried to shrug out of his grasp. “Go out and get some air or something. Been a long day."

"Rather be here," came a strangled reply.

"Jim."

"Shut the fuck up, Bones."

Jim's heart was beating too quickly, Leo realized instantly as Jim entangled them further, folding his own limbs into Leo’s; and Leo's fingers slipped compulsively over his wrist before Jim could worm it out of his grasp. "Fine," he muttered, and his lips brushed over Jim's forehead. "Stubborn bastard."

"Pot, meet kettle," he replied, face pressing into Leo's chest, voice oddly tremored; and as Jim pressed his fingertips tightly into whatever part of Leo he could reach, Leo couldn’t help but realize that his own heart might’ve been beating a bit fast, too.

\---

Leo only nodded to acknowledge Jocelyn’s pursed smile of greeting. They looked at each other, briefly, communicating mostly in silences, with Jocelyn’s sunglasses pushed up onto her head keeping her hair well repelled from her features, her eyes wide open and clear. In moments thick with tension, he cleared his throat, pushed open the screen door, and extended his arm forward, documents in hand.

“Thank you,” she said in a low voice, taking them from him with a slow and almost disbelieving hand. 

Leo bowed his head. “Just don’t … forget her,” he said before he could stop the words from escaping, and though his voice was quiet the words filled every inch of the porch’s enclosure.

“Oh, no, Leo,” Jocelyn breathed, her hand grasping over his arm as though magnetically compelled, equal parts angry that he asked and compassionate for the fact that he had to. “Never. I never could.”

Leo settled his hand over Jocelyn’s where it was set on his arm and shut his eyes, briefly, before withdrawing. They shared a lasting look before she nodded curtly, and then she peered suddenly around Leo, pursing the corner of her lips as she scanned for something off to one side within. Leo stepped aside, turning with a cocked brow to find what she was looking at.

“It was good to meet you, Jim,” she called into the hall; and after a moment Jim appeared sheepishly in the doorway to the kitchen, one leg hitching itself over the other as his hands slid humbly into his pockets.

“It was good to meet you too, Jocelyn,” he replied softly.

“I hope to see you again,” she offered, genuine.

Jim gave a subdued scoff. “Oh my god, is that ever mutual. You need to catch me up on the first volume of the Leonard McCoy story. He won’t tell me a goddamn thing,” Jim said with mock annoyance, gesturing flippantly to Leo as though he wasn’t even there.

“Well, that’s your burden to bear,” she told him warningly; and to Leo’s prominent annoyance, they seemed to share a knowing look before she stepped back. She glanced the tips of her fingers across Leo’s hand and, impulsively, he moved to take it, clasping his fingers gently over air. 

“Take care, y’hear?” she asked of him as she walked backward toward the stairs.

“Yes ma’am,” Leo muttered back, crossing his arms as she turned and strode back toward her car. She stopped at the vehicle door and lowered her sunglasses down just enough to peer at him over the top, the sort of quirk of a smile gracing her features he remembered falling in love with all too well; and then she disappeared into the vehicle, the bassline filling the property almost instantly, the car peeling away down the drive in no time at all.

Several bracing instants of emotion passed and Jim’s hands suddenly appeared, snaking themselves around his waist from behind as his chin rested on his shoulder. “You all right?” he muttered, lips brushing against the shell of Leo’s ear.

Leo leaned into it, just briefly, before stiffening again. “Still standing,” he offered, too lightly to be convincing.

“Good,” Jim said, hands slipping under his shirt and settling against skin already too warm in the path of the Georgia morning sun.

Leo took stock, made sure to remember the feel of Jim’s freshly calloused hands over his skin as the summer morning expanded out in front of them; and then, abruptly, Leo turned on his heel to back Jim against the wall, kissing him ferociously until a moan cracked its way out of Jim’s chest. He gripped at Jim’s torso as though clinging onto everything this life had to offer him all at once, and with Jim’s fingers scrambling for purchase in Leo’s hair, this life tugged at him right back, wrought a grunt from deep within his throat and forced him to be present.

And he realized, while tearing away only for long enough to rip Jim’s shirt over his head, that in some distant recess of his mind not presently preoccupied with the burn of sensation and lascivious intention there was a complete, overwhelming certainty that there was absolutely nothing about this life that he regretted at all.

\---

The coincidence of the signature of the papers with the completion of necessary work on the house yielded a lazy day in bed watching shitty holos and getting truly and spectacularly shitfaced courtesy of one Dr. Leonard H. McCoy, MD, PhD, and mixologist. However, in some unfortunate testament to the fact that Leo was emphatically not getting any younger, this meant that Leo woke up well into the afternoon the following day with a headache the size of the state of Kansas and an unexplained shortage of obnoxious blond on his other side.

He came down the stairs, fuzzy and confused by the heat of the afternoon, noting a distant hint of spice in the air. “Jim? What are you doing?” he asked the hallway, too quietly to be properly heard in the midst of the chaos of clattering pans that followed; and as he stumbled into the kitchen Leo was left to stand dumbstruck in the doorway as Jim puttered around within its walls, running a nervous hand through his hair as he mouthed incredulously at the recipe book. 

The smell was unmistakable, Leo realized after a beat had passed; the ingredients on the counter, too, were telling, and he gave himself another fleeting second of incredulous awe before stepping hesitantly forward into the room.

“You actually baked me a goddamn pie,” he said, unintentionally breathy.

Jim looked abruptly up, as though surprised to see him; then gave a sudden nervous smile. “You’re up early,” he said, and then, while slipping the cookbook onto the table -- “Yeah, sort of. I think I … definitely forgot vanilla. So I don’t know how it’s … gonna … turn out.” 

Leo stared, and Jim watched him nervously. “It’s pecan,” he continued eventually, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I thought about making peach, you know, because -- but I thought your mom probably made that a lot, so I didn’t want to, um, butcher the attempt. I don’t know how you feel about pecan. It’s the wrong season. I forgot the vanilla. You don’t have to eat it.”

Leo continued to look at Jim, then looked at the ingredients, and looked back at Jim. “It’s past noon,” he said slowly.

Jim blinked and frowned, struck with confusion. “What?”

“It’s past noon. You said I was up early. The afternoon only qualifies as early in whatever bizarro universe you hail from on weekends.”

“Oh.” Jim frowned deeper. “Yeah, well, to be honest I didn’t expect you until 1400h or so. Shit’s exhausting, Bones. I know you wanted to leave today, but I figure we can wait until tomorrow, given it’s only Friday, I wanted to let you sleep--”

But Jim cut off and blinked again, this time with apparent surprise as Leo suddenly found himself striding across the kitchen. In a matter of seconds he’d enveloped Jim into his arms, holding steadfastly on as he buried his face in the crook of Jim’s neck. “You literally baked me a pie,” he repeated eventually, voice strained.

One of Jim’s hands grasped loosely at Leo’s shirt while the other tugged gently at the hair on his neck. “It’s probably the worst pie you’ve ever had, Bones,” he replied distantly. “It’s an incomplete pie. I didn’t … put in any vanilla. I don’t know what vanilla ... looks like? I don’t even know if I’d recognize vanilla if it was sitting right in front of me. I don’t understand how pies -- are made. I don’t really bake much, Bones. I’m not really good at this.”

“Well, Jim, I gotta tell you -- I really don’t give much of a fuck,” Leo rasped against Jim’s lips; and Jim huffed laughter, leaned into the slow, gentle kisses that Leo was coaxing out of him; and soon they were slowdancing in the kitchen, inexplicably, Leo’s hand resting firmly against the nape of Jim’s neck as they swayed timelessly to the tune not heard, the skipping of their pulses at once setting the rhythm and saying all that needed to be said.

“So are you telling me that every time I want to drag this repressed romantic side out of you, I have to bake a shitty pie?” Jim asked softly after the passage of several minutes, pulling back barely far enough to set his forehead against Leo’s. “That’s a lot of work, Bones. Is there a shortcut? Not that I don’t like our normal speed, but sometimes all I want is a little tenderness, you know? A little break from the gruff, jagged Bones who seems to hate everything I--”

“Don’t ruin this,” Leo rumbled against his mouth before snagging his lower lip gently between his teeth. He held it there at a slight distance and wagged his eyebrows at Jim, clearly daring him to ruin it after all; and Jim’s eyes narrowed only briefly before he resigned himself to dismissal of the challenge.

“Pfffine,” Jim replied eventually; and Leo smiled as he sucked Jim’s lip back into his mouth, utterly unsurprised when Jim suddenly leaned him against the table and began to kiss him properly, pushing him onto his back and climbing on top of him on the old pine table. Jim swallowed each and every one of Leo’s objections about sanitation until the complaints evolved into litanies of a different sort, and Jim swallowed each one of those, too, absorbed them, willingly taking them in as his own, his hands whole and heavy against his skin.

\-----  
\-----

It wasn’t until the morning they left that Bones finally asked to be fucked into the mattress.

Admittedly, he did so in a bit of a compromising position, which was to say, already face-down on said mattress and getting rimmed within an inch of his life; but Jim would take what he could get.

The cantankerous “Yes, goddamnit, I mean your cock, now stop talking so fucking much and get _on with it_ ,” had more or less sealed any doubts Jim had initially had as to Bones’ meaning; and to his overwhelming joy, Bones lived up to each and every one of Jim’s expectations in terms of an inability to keep himself contained once the requisite period of slow burn had evolved into unravel, words slurring together into incomprehensible syllables each time Jim slid into him, both of them quivering with the tension of the slow pace but unwilling to ask for more.

(“Told you I’d fit,” Jim had whispered into Bones’ ear at one point of taken refuge, halted and buried to the hilt as he bent over Bones to mutter into his ear; and any biting reply Bones might’ve given through ragged breathing was nipped in the bud as Jim’s hand wrapped itself around Bones’ cock, heavier than he thought it would be and too soon neglected in favour of steadying Bones’ hips to keep a better angle.)

It was all Jim could do to keep aware of himself, to stay steady, when Bones’ knuckles whitened further still against the sheets; when his voice cracked into a higher octave, the force of Jim’s thrusts forcing the yelp out of him with unconscionable abandon; when finally something broke and Bones was reduced to beg in desperation between heaving sobs as Jim picked up the pace. 

Bones’ name flew out of Jim’s mouth almost in time with each thrust, lagging slightly in staccato harmony to Bones’ own cries; but then Jim slid a hand over his mouth, pressed his lips against the nape of Bones’ neck and whispered it there instead, _Bones, Bones,_ until his other hand finally abandoned Bones’ hip for his cock and Bones came hard, wordless but not silent into Jim’s hands. Jim abandoned control at last as he finally drove his own orgasm deep, and he shuddered over Bones’ collapsing tension, breath skittering over Bones’ skin as his hands moved beneath him, anchoring them at all points until their breath came back to them.

“You can’t call me that fucking name,” Bones whispered, as though part of him was somehow shattered, something in his tone too jagged for Jim to get a grip on; so Jim tensed his fingers over Bones’ ribs instead, pressed his lips against his back, tangled their legs in together, found as many points of contact as possible.

“You were stripped down the day we met, and it was still enough,” he graveled back. “The first and best thing I knew about you were those bones. I can’t call you anything else.”

Sticky sleep fell upon them in time with the slow heaving of their chests, and when Jim woke up Bones was already showered and dressed and packing, the tension back in his figure but lesser, somehow, as though the memories burdened upon him were still there but now accepted. Jim watched him from the bed, tracked the details of his movements, and made a point of noting the way his shoulders sloped in Georgia to mentally compare with the way they sloped in California, all the while cursing himself for caring so much.

“You gonna help at some point, or are you content to watch me do all the work?” Bones asked him after a few moments without looking at him, surprising Jim with the knowledge that he was awake; and Jim did get up, wordlessly pressed a rare unassuming kiss against Bones’ mouth, and complained loudly about Bones’ work ethic as he ambled lazily toward the shower.

By the time Jim dressed and managed to hitch his luggage down the stairs, Bones was standing in the middle of the entrance hall. His stance was much the same as it had been when they’d arrived two weeks prior, with his hands in his pockets and a sense of humility bestowed involuntarily upon him by the grandeur of the room; but as he locked the door behind them on their way down to the car, the tension suddenly adjusted itself in his shoulders to settle into them more broadly, to give him the air of authority that was required of him as a doctor -- the same one that had been entirely missing here since he’d first opened the door.

“That’s it, huh?” Jim asked him, trying to get the motives for this change out of him, but Bones only grunted, kept moving forward without looking back. He turned to take in the house’s gradeur a final time, and the lighting sloped against its panels in the late light of the day in just such a way that made Jim realize just why people fell in love with the South. The sun’s rays turned the deep yellow of early dusk as it painted the walls of the manor a new colour, overlapping and leaving obsolete their new paint job. 

And suddenly, all at once, some part of him -- some tiny, terrifying sliver -- wanted never to leave; knew that in some way, from now on, he couldn’t ever be totally rid of it.

“Bones,” Jim said suddenly, gravely, as Bones loaded the last of their luggage into the car. “Don’t sell this house.” He turned fervently, desperate for Bones to understand. “Don’t sell it. I’m serious. I really don’t think you should.”

“No?” Bones’ urban seriousness was starting to settle back into his face, features lying in recumbent shadow against the backlight of the dying day. “And why shouldn’t I?”

“Because?” Jim made a juggling gesture with his hands. “This place is a testament to everything that has been, everything that you've--” Jim trailed off suddenly, refusing to let the final ' _lost_ ' tumble out of his mouth. "Everything you've lived through is right here, in this fucking manor, for better or worse," he said instead, gesturing vaguely at the house and the yard surrounding it, at the paw-paw and fig trees punctuating the estate’s regality with a lush earthiness. “Because it’s part of you even -- _especially_ \-- if it's not quite right for you. It's everything home is supposed to be about.”

Bones stared, beheld Jim with an even gaze. He said nothing as he looked the manor up and down for several moments; then he swiveled on his heel, turning his back to it as he walked. He slammed the trunk shut and made his way over to the driver’s side of the vehicle without another glance, opting instead to look at his feet. “I don’t know what 'home' even means anymore, Jim,” was his gruff reply as he wrenched the door open and legged his way inside; and Jim stared after him, gaped moronically, unsure of what else he could say to get Bones to reconsider. 

Eventually he followed Bones into the car and let his pointed silence do the work for him, resisting the urge to cross his arms, instead bending to untie his shoes to clear Bones’ line of sight to the house, to no avail. But as they circled around the estate’s driveway and drove away into the sunset, Jim took a last look at the towering manor in the rear view mirror -- and caught Bones’ gaze in the reflection as his eyes, stark and honest, likewise stared back at its lines as it shrunk steadily behind them.

Jim grinned broadly and hitched his feet up on the dashboard as they pulled out into the road. The sun glinted harshly off the hood of the vehicle while Bones grumbled under his breath about one thing or another, fluidly pushing his sunglasses onto his face one-handed, and Jim was suddenly, wholly and unabashedly, _goddamned fucking happy._

“Thanks for having me over, Bones,” Jim said suddenly, staring at him with blatant affection as they drove down the street.

Bones glanced over at him, and then at the placement of his feet on the dash, before muttering, “I’m glad you came, Jim,” with some distant air of impatience with the paradox that was Jim Kirk; and then the side of his mouth quirked up, just slightly, as his free hand slid itself along the inside of Jim’s thigh, and _settled_ , like it belonged.

And as they drove back to the shuttle bay, back toward the Academy, to the best home Jim had known in a decade, to another year of training, Jim suddenly felt with tremendous force and uncompromising certainty -- the sensation spreading over him and building in his lungs, his lips pulling back in the sort of grin he felt Bones would surely characterize as _shit-eating_ \-- that they were going to come out of all this just fine.

\-----  
\-----

Oddly enough -- Leo never did quite find the time to put the house up for sale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, welcome, and sorry.
> 
> I grappled with the Joanna question a ridiculous amount, and parts of me remain massively dissatisfied with the tack my brain decided to take with this. I think my writing probably shows that fact. Joanna’s omission from the reboot films is another thing I’m annoyed with JJ about; just more of Bones’ backstory that isn’t being acknowledged. I disregarded Pamela Branch, partially because I only discovered her existence after I’d already mentioned Jocelyn in this fic (I drafted significant parts of this chapter in June) but also because I was dissatisfied with that divergence from TOS, with the creation of a more shallow version of Bones. Something drove Bones to join Starfleet almost a decade earlier in AOS than he did in TOS, and a divorce didn’t make enough sense to me on its own. Even with David McCoy’s death, it didn’t make enough sense. Something _drove this aviophobic to join Starfleet_. It takes a huge goddamn thing for the drive to get away to force a person to face a phobia -- like a bigger phobia, for example, of facing the reality of a substantial and unfathomable loss every day of his life. And given that Joanna was never mentioned and Bones looked unbelievably rough in the shuttle scene, I generated the idea that Joanna had been had, and then lost. That would explain the earlier divorce in AOS Bones’ life, the drive to not only leave his hometown with the intention never to return but indeed to leave the planet, etc.
> 
> I also feel strongly that the AOS verse is darker and contains generally more death than the TOS verse did. I’ve talked a bit about this on tumblr, but taking into consideration that actual billions of people are dead in AOS that were alive in TOS speaks strongly to that. The events of the Kelvin generated a chain reaction that just generally yielded more badness in the universe. My intention here was to speak to that, not to generate the erasure of more characters, although I fully recognize that this may be an effect here and I struggled seriously with the decision to run this plotline for six months. But at the end of the day I had to answer my own questions.
> 
> This is, in short, my tactic to explain the choice the writers made to make Bones’ manpain more prominent in AOS. I wasn’t trying to create more manpain, but I did it anyway. The lack of women in this fic is rectified to some extent in the sequels I have drafts for, but I don’t know if it’ll come to be. I’m writing this basically to acknowledge that I’m aware of the problems with the way I took this, but ultimately I’m still just trying to reconcile with AOS canon -- in some ways I’m still trying to write fix-it fic.
> 
> I also grappled a lot with Jim’s representation through these very dramatic scenes, because at the first sight of heaviness I think Jim, being this young and after years and years of precedent, generally runs away. He’s not yet a captain, let’s say. I settled for a Jim who definitely stays, but who’s quietly freaking out the whole time, which given that I switched back to Bones’ perspective may not be obvious here. I think that even Jim-at-this-point would stay, even if, at first, he does it only to support Bones as he’s supported Jim over the past year. Jim is certainly selfish and would be compelled to avoid dealing with the difficult thing, but he would also perceive a social contract of sorts here, and given that it’s Bones and he legitimately cares for Bones a whole metric fuckton, he would eventually get to a place where he was supporting Bones just because _he can_. 
> 
> But I also really do think that Jim’s panicking the entire time given that he’s never, ever been in a position to support someone else emotionally; this is a skillset he’s never developed. Off-stage, I imagine Jim staring himself palely down in the bathroom mirror having a stern discussion with himself as he grips desperately at the porcelain of the sink (‘are you going to run’ ‘no asshole you’re not going to run’ ‘are you sure’ ‘yes jesus fucking christ this is _bones_ , okay, you’re going to do this properly like an adult now get your ass out there right this fucking instant I cannot believe we’re even having this argument’). But he does stay. Because Bones always has. And he does the best he can. And that’s part of the process of getting to a point where he _could_ be captain.
> 
> The nanite invasion of the Enterprise NCC-1701-D in the 2370s is likened to something called the Leutscher virus, which suggests that the virus’ existence is likewise TOS canon compatible. The implication is that the virus is sudden, total, and consuming. I appropriated its name for use here.
> 
> Thank you, each of you, for reading. The response has been wonderful.


End file.
